


The Way We Were

by crossfirehurricane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Morality, F/M, Gen, Miscarriage, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 114,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The pressures of being queen were never more great when she bears one child, and one child alone, and buries four others in the ground."</p><p>An AU in which Lyanna is Rhaegar's queen, beloved by few, despised by most. Ambition and envy drive Cersei to try to put a wedge between husband and wife- by any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue | Lyanna I

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said wouldn't do a chaptered fic again, but this one popped up and I just had to. Enjoy!

Prologue - 282 AL

"How many babes will we have?"

Lyanna asks this after their loving, when the sheets are warmed and the fires within them have consumed all energy. She murmurs it into his chest, her pillow, her refuge.

Rhaegar gives her a little kiss on her head, and answers, "As many as you will give me." Then his hand slips down from her waist to her abdomen, which was still as flat as a plain. "But at the very least, one."

"One." She repeats it as she repeats all his words, as if they were faery-speak that required a breathy tone, one as light as a sprite's wings yet as sweet as a ripe elderberry. "I will give you six, my love. Or seven, or eight, or ten." Her nails dug into his back, leaving four half-moon marks as a temporary promise. He chuckles into her hair, and strokes her stomach.

"I will have them all. All ten of your little babes running around the Red Keep, knocking over servants, dirtying the floors, screaming so that half of King's Landing will hear." It was a sweet scene he painted, yet Lyanna did not see it as such. There were things in there she would have erased, replaced with something else. She sighed a forlorn sigh. Rhaegar noticed. "Does that not please you, Lyanna?" How disconcerted he sounded! It was to be expected as such; when people saw things different from Rhaegar, he fretted.

"It pleases me some," she conceded with a small smile. She felt Rhaegar's eyes trying to meet hers, and thus she tilted her head up so that the may receive her gaze. His hand quickly flew to her face, where he stroked her brow so lightly, as if she were a babe herself.

"What of it does not please you?" His thumb dragged down the side of her face, leaving her flesh burning in its trail, until it rested on her lower lip, where it rubbed back and forth, back and forth.

"Must we go to King's Landing?" She asked him in all urgency, at which he frowned and paused his stroking. "Let us stay here, where we are happy. Send away your knights and your servants. Leave the tower to the two of us, and you may cook and I may clean. I will never wear a dress again- nay, I'll near wear a thing at all. We may live together, alone, in peace, forever." The image she conjured brought a lilt of excitement to her voice, a flush of awe to her face. Surely, her eyes must have brightened also, as Rhaegar's face softened at her, and he returned to teasing her lip.

"And who will be king? Shall I rule from Dorne, so far south from the heart of the kingdom, and send all my orders by raven?" Lyanna wanted to whisper _yes_ , to press herself to him in a moment of ecstasy and allow herself to succumb to the sweet fairytale. Yet he spoke with the tone of an amused father, not like she, like an enraptured lover. He was only humoring her. Lyanna knew what this meant. "Nay, my sweet, that is madness. We shall have King's Landing and all its luxuries, and you shall be quite content there. Besides..." His hand left her face to find purchase on her back, where he pushed her closer to him, pressing her breasts onto him and setting her hips in line with his. He murmurs, "Dorne discomforts you. You say it gives you heat." The sun's heat was not what she felt now, as the moon hung over their tall tower, but a carnal one, one that started between her legs and rose up to the center of her belly.

"Yes, it does, it does," she said breathlessly as she regained her wits. "Forget Dorne, then. Let us go north, beyond the wall, where it snows day and night no matter the season." Lyanna missed the snow, more than she would ever miss the sand surrounding her. "We will need no one there. We may hunt, and run, and live. Let us be wildlings together- I'll be your shieldmaiden, and you my man." This was even better than the last! Cold, crisp winds, thick warm furs, and enough snow to blind.

Rhaegar chuckled at his too, not any more serious. Lyanna furrowed her brows at him- _I mean it!_ she wanted to cry, but couldn't.

"Wildlings? Savages, more like," he said with a edge of disbelief. "That is what they will call us." They? Who was they? The only 'they' that mattered to Lyanna was the two of them.

"Let them call us that, then. At least we'll be free." _There is nothing greater than to be free._ Wind at your back, feet stained with dirt, knees with grass, and not single wordly possession festooned about you. It was all she ever wanted.

Rhaegar sighed now, dropping his amusement to replace it with exasperation. "Lyanna-"

"Oh, think of it, Rhaegar!" It was her turn to stroke his face, to push those silver tresses out of his eyes, to let him see her clearly. "Every night we will have a fire, and each other to keep us warm. We will make love under the stars, and I will give you ten children, all savage little babes, who will find others like us and be happy like we are-"

He shushed her with a kiss, which Lyanna submitted to for only a moment before wrenching away. Unbidden tears pricked her eyes- she understood what he was doing, what he was trying to do. She could already hear him saying _Enough, Lyanna. Close your eyes, you are speaking out of exhaustion._ Oh, but she wanted so badly for it to happen, this fantasy of hers. It was all she wanted.

"I remember the first time you kissed me," she murmured in a thin voice, fighting back emotion. "You tasted like a dream. Like hope, and fairy dust, and a hundred possibilities." She burrowed her face back into his chest, to avoid his searing gaze. "Now it is different." But how so? He still thrilled her with his kisses, still sent a river of love coursing through her veins, but it was no longer a mysterious love. All was clear. She knew her place, and he knew his.

"Come now, Lyanna," he whispered sweetly into her hair, lulling her into an even temper. "Dreams are for those who have yet to live. We live now- dreamers can only hope to do what we do now." His hand massaged the small of her back, kneading little circles that relieved all stiffness. Lyanna felt herself at ease again, under his intoxicating spell that played on her nerves like fingers on harp strings. "You will not be discontent in King's Landing. I will see to it."

"How?" She whispered back, her voice weakening with the weight of sleep. "What will you do?" Lyanna wanted stories like that ones he told her in their letters. She wanted thrills, delight beyond description. She did not want reality, she wanted magic, things that sounded wonderful but may very well be impossible. _Let me hear your promises again._

And thus, he began. "I will buy you a horse of silver- a finer mare you won't find anywhere, and she will be as swift and sure as the wind." A coat to match her Rhaegar's locks, gleaming in the sunlight, softer than down. "I will fill a whole room with your winter roses, brought straight from the North and filling every inch, every corner." From Winterfell, those roses will be and no other Northern city. "We may go riding, we'll sup together at every chance, and I will warm your bed every night." Yes, every night, she would sleep by him, lay with him, envelope herself in him and she does now. "And I will give you ten babes- gladly, I would give them to you, and care for you with each one you grow full with."

_Yes, yes._

These dreams were different. They were truer, more honest, yet brought with them the thrill of solidity. _I will, we will,_ Rhaegar said, not _I may, we might._

It was real. It was not like Robert, who she had to fake smiles for, whose hands she could hardly withstand on her. What Rhaegar made her feel was a rush of life that could not be compared. He gave her purpose. He gave her love.

King's Landing would be heaven if he were there beside her.

\--- 

It had been three years.

Three long, full years since the dust had settled, since Robert Baratheon's death in a river stained with his blood, since the burned bodies of Elia and the children were buried, since the Mad King burned with them, and the corpses of fighting men were left to rot in the sun. It had been three tiresome, grueling years with a heavy crown weighing on Rhaegar's head, years spent making peace and receiving guests, pleasing the realm and occasionally his wife. It was often difficult, being queen to a dedicated king, and Lyanna found those years to be filled with much wanting. There was a lust for home, for Winterfell and summer snows. Winterfell was comfort, an arsenal of memories, the only place in the land where she could sleep peacefully. Lyanna had not returned since she ran from it.

Winterfell was in her past, not yet in her future, and thus the present was filled with yearning too. Lyanna often found herself aching for the way things were, at the tower in Dorne, where Rhaegar was seldom too tired to make love, and never so overwrought. Life then was exquisite; it was a seemingly endless summer, ripe with the fruits of discovery, the fragrance of love, and the promise of life. Life she was able to bear then, in the form of her little son.

The tower passed, and life as queen began. She struggled for some time to try and fall into her subjects' good graces, but Elia's ghost still fulfilled the role of a perfect queen, leaving Lyanna despised and alone. For three years, Lyanna had only Jon. Her son, her only child and her only source of definite joy. There was Ned and Benjen, as well, though only through written correspondence. In flesh, however, she had Jon, who filled her days with delight when her busy husband could not. Jon was enough for Lyanna.

But the pressures of being queen were never more great when she bears one child, and one child alone, and buries four others in the ground.

\---

The night had begun with much passion.

When he fell into bed beside her, Lyanna was quick in straddling him, quick to press kisses to his awaiting mouth. It took her only moments now to ascertain if her husband was too worn for affections past a chaste kiss, and tonight a faint fire flickered behind his eyes. If Lyanna did not take the initiative then, she knew Rhaegar would; they had been trying desperately for the past three years now to fill Lyanna's womb with a seed that would quicken to term. This was a task she knew Rhaegar viewed as part duty, part love, but since it was duty, he was willing to do it whenever he could. Lyanna had no similar notions; she simply wanted him inside her, to love her as he used to with the same reckless abandon that pervaded him in the Tower of Joy. Rarely did she receive this, but still she hoped.

Thus, when she kissed down his throat and sucked at his skin, he did not expect herself to stop suddenly to lay her head down on his chest. Rhaegar was still moving forward, opening the back of her gown to place a cool hand on her warm skin, then sliding up to run his fingers through her hair. Lyanna could not move.

She appeared to have worried him, prompting him to ask, in that soft, husky voice he reserved for her and her alone, "What is wrong?" When she did not respond, he sat up, pulling her with him, so that he may meet her eye. His hand cupped her cheek ever so sweetly, his fingers still intertwined with hair so that his touch felt softer than usual. "What is wrong?" He asked again.

Lyanna raised her stormy eyes to him, trying to conceal the sorrow with poor results. "It is nothing you should worry about," Lyanna said unconvincingly. "You've better things to think about." But his eyes bore into her still, awaiting a proper response. With sudden passion, Lyanna clutched the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Her head was tilted all the way up in order to meet his eye. "You know I value the opinion of you and my family above all others. You know I care not for cruel whispers on strangers' tongues as long as you and my brothers hold me in high regard. You know that, don't you?" Her voice was hardly a murmur, but it fell out urgent and quick. Rhaegar nodded his agreement soundlessly. Lyanna took a heavy sigh, and said, "The court hates me."

Rhaegar frowned, confused by her statement. "Hates you? Those men and woman do not hate-"

"They do!" She cried out feverishly, biting back tears. "They call me names behind my back, Rhaegar! They call me the wolf-bitch, Lyanna the Barren, wolf-slut, dragon's whore-" Each word was said with increasing intensity until Rhaegar's sharp look stilled her tongue, sending her into his chest again with eyes full of tears. "I cannot pretend... No matter what... Everytime I walk..." Lyanna had raised her head up high for so long, endured their mockeries day after day until now she found she could bear them no longer. She used to laugh to herself, growl that they ought to see her as the wolf-queen she was. But it was difficult to keep a still chin when they spoke of her empty womb, mocked the children she lost, and the babes she had yet to lose. It was too much- couldn't they see that she ached for another babe? That with each one that fell bloody from her womb, Lyanna felt the consequences reverberate throughout every aspect of her life? Lyanna would endure Rhaella's scorn, the Dornishmen's insults, the Maester's ill-boding frown, and Rhaegar's disappointed eyes. Why must the court, lords and ladies of nothing, exacerbate her plight? 

"They speak as if I do not try," she whispered hoarsely. "I want so badly to give you another babe." Unbidden tears fell, staining his shirt darker. "I do not wish to bury another. I have prayed and prayed, and yet the gods take them from me before they leave my womb." The farthest any of her dead babes had gotten was five moons, enough to be a bump on her belly, before it too fell. She wouldn't leave her chambers for weeks after, but when she did the court's whispers rose quickly to her ears: _A war fought for a barren bitch..._

Rhaegar's gentle hand stroked her hair, soothing her immediately, bringing an end to her tears. The hand drifted to her chin, tilting it up so that he may meet her eye again. His eyes were cold as a winter's breeze, but his touch indicated that the harshness was not for her. "I have not heard such whispers," he said. "Who spreads them?"

"Cersei Lannister," Lyanna answered quickly. Of this, she was sure. The daughter of the Master of Coin had become popular at court, much unlike Lyanna, and yet she knew that she always envied her. It was Cersei's pink lips that curled into a smug smile whenever the whispers abound, the sparkle in her ruthless green eyes making it known that it was she that inspired all this. In their dealings with each other, she made obvious her disdain for her, and Lyanna knew, she just _knew_ , it was her.

Rhaegar blinked, not so sure. "You are aware her father sits on my small council?" He asked, almost as a warning. "I cannot come to Lord Tywin's daughter with false accusations-"

"They are not false!" Lyanna returned, tightening her grip on his shirt. "I simply know it is her. Please, Rhaegar, speak to her for me. Tell her to stop. I would have done so myself, but I knew you'd think it unseemly..." But how she wanted to! A well-placed word or two might humble the lioness, make her seal her lips regarding her queen. Lyanna would like to see her shut up.

Rhaegar gave a sigh. "Then I will speak to her for you." His brushed his lips to her brow, and Lyanna fell calm.

"Thank you."

Then in a slow motion, he eased her onto her back. On reflex, Lyanna's legs tightened around him, then his hands ran up her arms to press them to the pillows beside her head. She always felt most intimate like this, with Rhaegar's lips hovering above her own, his chest pressing down on her breasts, and hands on her wrists, assuring her that he was near. Soon he would be inside her, and Lyanna would be filled with ecstasy. He pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth before drifting to her throat, his lips wet and warm.

"I had always wanted to give you many babes," Lyanna whispered in a sigh. "Many little babes that would fill your halls with cries and laughter." She felt him smile against her. He then raised his head to look at her. "Now I want a babe so that I may cease their whispers."

His lips went to her jaw, brushing it lightly, and extracting from her a low moan. "You are my queen, and they shall treat you as such," he murmured against her skin, sending a wave of heat rushing through her. "I will put an end to it, my love."

"You promise?" She asked childishly.

His gaze returned to her, as heavy as the weight he pressed upon her wrists. "I promise," he said, sealing his vow with a kiss.

Over the years, Lyanna learned that Rhaegar's gilded words did not always come true. She only hoped that this vow did not succumb to the same fate as the withered promises from ages past.


	2. Cersei I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei's ambitions come into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments! Enjoy!

The simpering girl before her began to grind on Cersei's nerves.

Her name was Edith, a lady of some inconsequential house that owned to a small plot of barren land, likely earned through a minor political favor. The girl was faintly pretty, just enough to please a husband, but, unfortunately, not rich enough to do so. Thus, her parents put her to work as a servant, and the girl was quiet enough to raise herself to the queen's party of handmaidens. Edith was not satisfied still with the coin she received for serving a fickle queen, and with debt haunting her family and narrowing her marriage prospects further, she grew desperate- Cersei dealt in women like that.

"M-My lady," the insipid creature stuttered. "I do not know if I can continue in your task..."

It took all of Cersei's good graces not to roll her eyes and glare. Feigning concern, she asked, "And why not, Edith?"

The girl looked around her as if expecting a castle guard to barge into Cersei's chambers and drag her out by the hair. Cersei so hated jittery women.

"Well, you see... That is... I..." With each stammer, her voice grew lower and lower, until it was just a series of incoherent murmurs under her breath.

"By the gods, what is it?" Cersei snapped, her jaw setting in irritation. The girl fell rapt to attention, her eyes widening and her back straightening as if an animal had come out and frightened her. Cersei decided she looked stupid while fearful.

"I fear getting caught, my lady," Edith said in a string of bumbling words. "I-It is dangerous... What you have me do is very, very dangerous, and I do not know if I can do it much longer." She began to tremble, tears springing into her eyes.

Cersei bit back a sigh, instead giving the quivering girl a tight smile. She took her hand, and pulled her into the chair beside her, before leaning in close to her. Cersei's hand stroked her shaking fingers, trying to soothe her as she would a child. "My dear," she began in a velvety voice. "How long have you been the queen's handmaiden?" Cersei knew the answer to this, but asked it anyways.

"S-Since she came to King's Landing, my lady," the girl replied. "Three years."

"Yes. Now..." Cersei locked eyes with her, forcing her gaze to focus on her and only her. "My sweet Edith, I do not ask much of you, do I? I have been so very kind and generous to you, and yet I ask for very little in return." Edith nodded dumbly; Cersei continued. "Now you, my dear, you are a handmaiden to our lovely queen, and you are always so very busy. Tell me what your jobs are."

Edith paused, as if formulating a list in her thick head, befor saying, "I serve her breakfast, dress her, brush her hair and accompany her if she so wishes. Then I dress her for the evening, wash her feet, and brush her hair again."

"Yes, you-"

"And sometimes I ride with her."

Cersei gritted her teeth behind her sweet smile. "Yes, and sometimes you ride with her. So many tasks, you busy girl. Now what do I ask you to do?"

"I tell you when the queen is with child." 

"And?"

She paused before speaking again, this time in the softest whisper. "And I serve her the tea you give me."

Cersei patted her hand, congratulating the girl on reaching the point. "Yes, my dear, that is all I have you do. That, and holding your tongue." She leaned back, smiling still at the dumb girl. "And I am so kind, too. I bring you the tea already prepared, and all you do is boil it again so that is piping hot for our sweet queen. She must think you a sorceress for preparing her tea so quickly." Tea made by the Grand Maester Pycelle, whose ambitions aligned with her father's and her own. Tea that was sweetened with peppermint so that the bitter tansy didn't disgust the childish queen.

"My lady," Edith began again in that infuriatingly weak voice. "I know what the tea does, my lady. It... the queen's babes..."

Cersei leaned forward suddenly, grabbing the girl's hand again, only harsher than before. "Who was it that gave you coin when your brother fell ill and required a maester's expensive care?" She hissed at her, her patience wearing thin.

"Y-You, my lady."

"And who was it that has been paying you weekly since you've undertaken my task- a task you have only had to do but four times in the past 3 years? A task you have failed multiple times to do at the times I've asked you to do it?"

"You, my lady. But th-that is not-"

"I have been so kind to you, Edith. I have saved your family from debt and your brother from death, and I ask for very little in return."

"M-My lady has been very generous," Edith conceded with a vigorous nod. "It is only that I fear getting caught." She paused, her mouth agape, before blubbering with a quivering lip, "I do not want to die!" Then the girl pressed her face into Cersei's hands, allowing fat tears to roll onto them. With uncharacteristic tenderness, Cersei tilted the girl's chin up, stroking her wet cheek as she did.

"My dear Edith," she crooned in a grim voice. "Do not fear the consequences that will occur if you are caught. Fear my wrath if you ever dare to cross me."

The girl's mouth opened as if to speak before it froze in place, dumbfounded. Cersei got to her feet, and pulled the girl up with her, guiding her to the door.

"Get your sleep, Edith. Our queen will expect you in the morning," Cersei said with a smile before opening the door and nudging the trembling girl out. With an exasperated sigh, she made her way to her bed, burying her face in the pillows. They smelled like Jaime, like musk and gold and Casterly Rock. Tonight he was outside of the king's bedchambers, standing guard to the royal couple inside: her dearest Rhaegar and the insufferable Lyanna.

"Rhaegar," Cersei whispered to herself as she had done a thousand times before. His name tasted so sweet on her lips, sweeter than wine, flowing out of her mouth like it was meant to be said by her. She wondered what he truly tasted like. A kiss from his chiseled lips would be enough to get her drunk and drive her dizzy.

 _"You will be queen,"_ Her father's voice filled her head, pulling her from his blissful reverie. _"You will be queen, Cersei, as you were meant to be."_ He had said this since her girlhood, promised her a crown on her head and a king for a husband.

Yes, Cersei wanted to be queen, but she wanted that husband more. She would have been content being Rhaegar's princess, before his father perished, or even his whore in that tower in Dorne where he kept the wolf-bitch. Rhaegar, with his sad purple eyes, and soft smile, with the hard voice that shined like polished steel. Rhaegar, who was said to be sweet and kind and so very smart. He was all Cersei wanted.

 _He was supposed to be mine._ Back when her mother was alive, it was done so that Rhaegar would be Cersei's, and Elia would be Jaime's. But her mother died, and the plans fell apart with her when her father promised her Rhaegar. But in doing so he left Elia to Rhaegar and Cersei with nothing. Then she was promised again, when Elia was proclaimed unable to produce another heir, when she was sickly and dying, it was said again that Rhaegar would be Cersei's. But Rhaegar chose the wolf-bitch. _"Because he didn't see you,"_ Her father had grumbled when he first heard the news. _"The Stark girl isn't half as beautiful as you. If he had seen you, if we had gone to the tourney..."_

Cersei lost him twice. Though marriage offers came from all over the kingdom from many grand houses, her father turned them all down. Now, she was twenty, and unmarried, but she was closer to Rhaegar than she had ever been, in his castle but not his chambers. _"You will be queen,"_ her father insisted. _"We will take down the Stark girl, and you will get what is owed to you."_ But Cersei was not blind to her father's ambitions. He wanted power- he wanted the Lannister name to be recorded in the history books as a grand one, and he wanted all the credit. And while Cersei hungered for power too, that was not all she desired.

What Cersei wanted, truly wanted, was Rhaegar's love.

 _He was supposed to be mine. And he will be,_ she promised herself. _I am a lioness of the Rock, and I will make him mine. I will tear down the she-wolf, rip her to shreds, in order to get him._ Vows to destroy, intentions to hurt, they were all part of the plan to whittle away at the queen's attractiveness to the king.

Already, she had begun to do so. Cersei found that turning the court against Lyanna Stark was child's play. With just a well-placed word or two in the right ears, a coin pressed into the right palms, and the lords and ladies would mock her and call her names without an ounce of remorse. Edith was also remarkably easy to persuade, as most poor girls are, and slipping moon tea into the queen's diet was simpler than most would imagine. Now with every babe that fell from her womb, Cersei saw Rhaegar's eyes grow sadder, as they once were, and Cersei knew in time that his love for her would wane.

It was only an infatuation, after all. He was always meant to be Cersei's. 

\---

"You can tell when he's fucked her," Cersei brooded to Jaime, glaring at Lyanna from across the hall. The king and queen were holding breakfast with the court in the dining hall, as they always did once a week. Lyanna stood beside Rhaegar, who was speaking with a man, an ambassador. "Look at her, Jaime. Her cheeks are as pink as a pig." Just as the words left her mouth, Rhaegar placed a hand on Lyanna's back, introducing her. She could see her bite her lip as he did so. "He just touches her and she looks as if she's about to come," she hissed, then averted her gaze, unable to look at them any longer.

"Are you jealous, Cersei? I can hardly tell, you know. You are hiding it _so_ well," Jaime returned, sarcasm dripping off his words. She knew he was jealous too, only that Jaime loved the prince too much to speak as venomously as she did.

"I pity him. He deserves better than that vulgar woman." Rhaegar leaned down to whisper something into Lyanna's ear. She frowned as did so, and opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but Rhaegar had already left her side before she could. "I bet she howls like the wolf her house," Cersei added in a grumble.

"Oh, she does," Jaime assured her. "The woman moans louder than most." Cersei turned to her brother, interested. He looked visibly distraught, envy flashing in those green eyes that mirrored her own.

"And Rhaegar?" She asked. "Is he so loud?" Cersei wouldn't mind it if he were.

"As quiet as a mouse," Jaime said with a twitch of his lip, and Cersei decided she liked that too. Jaime was fairly quiet himself. "But he does fuck her, and often. She denies him not." Jaime said this to dishearten her, but it did no such thing. It was even better like this, knowing it would all end one day.

"She may spread her legs as often as she likes. No babe will come about because of it." Cersei smiled devilishly, all but taking credit for the act. "He will tire of her, Jaime. You'll see." Jaime's grimace only grew deeper.

Just then, a well-dressed servant approached the two of them, bowing low. "Good morn to you m'lady, and you too, Ser," he said, nodding to both of them. "Lady Cersei, the King Rhaegar requests your audience in his conference hall. He sent me to escort you."

Cersei's heart skipped a beat. _Rhaegar... wants me?_ The thought would be enough to stun her, had she been alone, but instead she quickly gathered her wits and nodded.

"Take me to him, then," Cersei said in a clear voice, nodding towards the servant. As he began to lead her away, she turned to glance at Jaime, and found him scowling at her back. The joy in her heart faltered, but did not extinguish.

She was led to the conference hall, the very same the small council sat in, the one where her father saw Rhaegar whenever a meeting was held. The servant held open the door for her, and she entered before he promptly closed it behind her.

She saw Rhaegar standing at the head of the table, his hands folded behind his back, standing diligently in waiting. Cersei's breath caught in her throat at the sight of him so near; he was so very beautiful, so unbearably handsome to where not even her Jaime held a candle to him. He stood tall, a full six and a half feet, with a hard, lithe form that was able to fell men the size of aurouchs. That body was dressed in the finest silks, clothes truly suiting a king, in a mosaic of the red and black hues of his house. Then his hair...

"My lady of Lannister," he said in his strong, cool voice. "Please, have a seat." He motioned to the chair beside him, moving to pull it out for her. Cersei nodded dumbly, and settled herself into the chair. Rhaegar took the one at the head of the table, making it the closest she's ever been to him.

His hair was long, past his shoulders, pin straight and the color of pale spun silver. It shone bright like the sun on a sweltering day, catching the light in ways that seemed magical. He pushed it off his shoulders now, to fall on his back in a waterfall of white gold. When he raised his eyes to meet hers,Cersei felt the color rise to her cheeks. Such eyes! They were pools of deep, dark purple that could humble the gods themselves. But then, what was Rhaegar if not a god?

"My lady," he began, saving her from speaking. "Do you know why I have called you here?" He reached for the pitcher of wine before him, pouring a goblet for her, and himself. She accepted the outstretched cup with trembling hands, quickly bringing it to her lips.

With her throat quenched, Cersei finally spoke. "No, my lord, I fear I do not."

"Before I say, my lady, you should know that I bear much love for your lord father, and your house. You all have been unwaveringly loyal, and I owe much to your lord father," Rhaegar said, his gaze holding true with her own. "And thus I hope my words do not come across as scornful, for I do not mean them to be."

Though near breathless, Cersei responded, "My lord, you could never offend." Never, not in a hundred years, could such words fall out of that beautiful mouth. It simply couldn't be.

He smiled at her, and Cersei thought she might faint. "Thank you, my lady." Then his face turned serious again, and he said, "The queen told me of whispers at court that may be harmful to her character." Cersei did not allow herself to falter. She put on a surprised face, trying to absolve herself. "While I have not heard such whispers, she tells me you have a part in them." He paused to assess her, analyzing the lines of her face for falsehood.

Cersei remained calm. "What whispers, my lord?" _"Play the fool, Cersei,"_ her father's voice rang in her head.

"She tells me that the court calls her names, that they insult her whenever she is near." Rhaegar leaned forward a little, and Cersei's heart raced from joy at the proximity. "My lady, I will bring no charges against you if you confess to playing a part. I will only ask that you cease the rumors."

Still filling the role of the innocent maid, Cersei lowered her eyes to his hands on the table. They were large, with long, graceful fingers, well-suited to a harp or the laces of a dress. "It pains me that the queen thinks I speak ill of her." She raised her eyes to his again. "I have indeed heard these cruel words, but I have never repeated them. I fear they have come about of their own accord." Lies and lies, but it would atone. If they were wed, she would not lie to him so.

Rhaegar let his hard gaze linger on her face before the tension in his brow was relieved, his face falling soft. "I apologize, then, for this misunderstanding. I did not wish to impugn your honor." He stood, and reached out his hand. "I pray you do not think poorly of me for this."

Cersei took his hand, forcing her own fingers to be still, and got to her feet. "My lord, you could never-" He pressed a light kiss to her kunckles, his silver hair sweeping over his shoulders as he leaned down. When he stood straight again, he let go of her hand, leaving Cersei's heart fluttering madly.

"Have a wonderful day, my lady. I hope I did not interrupt your schedule." His voice was music to her ears, as sweet as honey and as smooth as silk. Cersei wanted that voice in her ear, always, forever...

Gathering her wits about her, Cersei smiled serenely. "You have caught me right before a visit, my lord, but I do not believe I will be late." As hoped, this sparked his interest, and his eyes flashed curiously.

"Where will you visit?"

"There is an orphanage in the city of which I am a patron. I have promised to visit the children after I break my fast." This was true. It was a tiring event she kept once a month in hope that Rhaegar would notice.

"That is very kind of you, my lady," Rhaegar approved with a steady voice. Yet he seemed a bit perplexed, with his brows furrowing and his lip twitching slightly once.

"Thank you, my lord. Please, call me Cersei," she said. "If you will, I will be on my way." She gave a deep curtsey before moving past him, reaching as far as the door.

"Lady Cersei?" He asked from behind her, sending a blush to her cheeks again. Her name never sounded so sweet! She wanted to ask him to say it again, so she may brand it into her mind and recall later.

Supressing her emotion, Cersei turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Yes, my lord?"

"Shall you...? Would you...?" He began cautiously, still choosing the proper words. "If you would like, I may arrange for the queen to break fast with you tomorrow, in order to put aside any misunderstanding. The queen needs-" He stopped himself, but his offer lingered.

And what an offer indeed.

"It would be an honor to break fast with her majesty," Cersei said with a practiced smile. "I look up to her so." She nearly laughed at the words that left her lips- a bolder lie, she had never told!

"Very well. I shall arrange it," he promised with a reassuring nod.

"Thank you, my lord." She gave another curtsey, and stepped out from the room. Once outside, she rushed to her chambers, closing the door behind her and then leaning against it. Her heart beat wildly, thump thump thumping against her chest, threatening to jump out completely.

She held up her hand to her face, examaning where his lips had brushed her. She felt a tingle along the ridges of her knuckles, then a warmth that spread from them to every inch of her. Her head was beginning to spin, and for a moment, Cersei thought she dreamt her encounter with Rhaegar. He simply had to be a dream, an apparation, what with how he shined in the sunlight, how his eyes sparkled, and how his voice filled her head. The red in his clothes speckled her vision, placing him behind a window of stained glass. How she wished she could shatter that glass and run into his arms! His embrace would surely match no other's- not her mother's, not Jaime's. 

_Patience, Cersei,_ she told herself. _You've a long way to go._ She was to endure breakfast with the wolf-bitch fiest before she may wriggle her way into her throne.

That night she dreamt of Rhaegar's steely voice in her hair, and a weight on her head.


	3. Rhaegar I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar learns what needs to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Comment/feedback appreciated.
> 
> I also modified a line in the previous chapter after I (belatedly) saw that I bleeped up:
> 
> _But her mother died, and the plans fell apart with her when her father promised her Rhaegar. But in doing so he left Elia to Rhaegar and Cersei with nothing._

Rhaegar found it strange how his meeting with Cersei reminded him of his mother.

It was a memory from not too long ago, perhaps only seven moons, right before Lyanna fell pregnant with the last child that died.

"You are too soft with her, Rhaegar," Rhaella had said then, her purple eyes flashing in the dark room. "You need a queen, and she is not one."

"What should I do?" He asked with a certain bit of reluctance. "How can I make her a queen?"

"Remind her of her place," she said cryptically. "Do not treat her as a whore when she is your wife. She has duties to you, Rhaegar." That puzzled him- a whore? He never treated Lyanna as a whore. She was always his wife, his spirited partner, and his equal. "And she has duties to her kingdom. Do not spoil her any longer."

Rhaegar didn't have a chance then to take his mother's advice, for that very evening Lyanna curled into his side and whispered, "I am with child, my sweet," and for a while, all seemed bright.

_But why is the Lannister woman on my mind?_

What connection did she have to such a memory?

Rhaegar retired to his chambers with Cersei on his mind still, only in a different light.

He wasn't thinking of her as most would. While it was undeniable that she was extraordinarily beautiful, it was her behavior that clung to the inside of his mind. The way she carried herself with such grace, how her speech was ladylike in every way imaginable, how she appeared so demure and understanding- it almost felt a crime to have approached her with such unsavory accusations. That he had performed such a task left him uneasy. Truly, she seemed like such a kind girl...

He gave a nod to Ser Oswell outside his bedchambers before entering, finding Lyanna seated at the vanity with a handmaiden attending to her hair. When she heard him enter, she whipped her head in his direction, pulling her tresses from the handmaiden's hands. The servant girl look toward him too, then curtsied low before making her exit.

Lyanna did not wait before the door was shut to fire questions at him. "Did you speak to her?"

Rhaegar waited til he heard the door close behind him before saying, in a flat voice. "I did speak with her." He walked over to the dresser, turning his back to her. He opened the front of his shirt with deft fingers, before pulling the extravagant garment off and laying it before him. When he reached for his nightshirt, Lyanna's arms wrapped around his middle, and he felt her warm cheek at his back.

"Thank you," she said sweetly, turning so that her lips brushed his skin. "Tell me: did she cry when you scolded her?" He heard the smile in her voice, and for some strange reason, it bothered him. It was... unseemly.

"Lyanna, what happened to that orphanage you patronize?" He asked her, changing the topic. It had suddenly occured to him that she did do a queenly thing after all.

Her arms dropped from around him, and when he turned he found them crossed over her chest. "Why do you ask?" She asked, guarded.

"I simply wish to know."

Her eyes fell downward and she played with a lock of her hair when she answered. "They come to me from time to time asking for money, and I give them what they ask for."

"Do you visit them? The children?" He didn't like how she behaved, speaking cautiously as if he were extracting a secret from her.

"I do not. There is no need to," she answered curtly, dropping her hair and meeting his eye.

"Perhaps you should see them. It might-" _Might make you better liked,_ he wanted to say, but couldn't.

"Why would I want to see children, Rhaegar?" She asked in a small voice, and suddenly he felt he hit on something tender. "Why would you make me do that?" Yet despite her apparent hurt, something in her irritated him, and he felt the need to end the conversation quickly.

"Nevermind, then. Forget I said it." He forced a tight smile and touched her head briefly before pulling his shirt over his head.

When Lyanna came in sight again, he saw her face bright.

"Now, tell me, my love," she crooned with a wicked grin. She put her arms around his waist, and leaned back, using him as a support to keep from falling back. "Did Cersei confess quickly or did you have to be cruel to her first?" She looked smug, as if she had won something, and was proud for it. It wasn't right.

"She did not confess. There was nothing to confess," he replied curtly, bearing no similar smile. Immediately, her face dropped, and her arms too, which instead fell limp to her sides. "Lady Cersei denies playing any part in these whispers."

"Denies it?" He saw her lip twitch, a precursor to her rage, before she laughed suddenly, and bitterly so. "Of course she denies it! Would she be so mad as to admit to it?" Rhaegar did not respond, instead taking up time to sit down in the nearest chair to pull his boots off. When the task was completed, he looked up at Lyanna, who had moved closer, and found her pinning him with a harsh glare, with that stubborn set of jaw beginning to fall into place. "So you did not tell her to stop? You did not remind her of her place?" She asked steadily, the irritation in her voice building.

"I did not," Rhaegar answered, leaning back into the chair. He felt tired all of a sudden, with dull aches reaching down into his bones. There were so many things to do, so many people to speak with, and gods only knew how many times he walked across one end of the Red Keep to the other...

"And why not?" His wife's voice snapped at him. "Why did you believe her?"

"Because I have no evidence against her, Lya," he said with a sigh. "I cannot accuse her without-"

"Is my word not enough, then?" Her hands balled up into little fists. "You take her word over your wife's?"

"It is not that I don't trust you, it is just a matter of proof," He grumbled, enduring her fierce glare. He felt his patience slip away from him, with her anger leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, and thus he snapped, "Have you any evidence, then? Have you heard her speak out against you with your very own ears?" He could tell he bested her there, as her anger slipped from her face to be replaced with confusion.

"Well, n-no, it is only that-"

"Then there is nothing to discuss, and nothing to accuse the Lady Cersei of," he said with a conclusive air, walking past her and into the bathroom, where he leaned over the basin of water to splash his face. Once finished, his hands gripped the edges of the metal container, watching droplets of water drip into it, rippling the surface. By the gods, he felt so terribly tired, as if his limbs had been pulled til they stretched into taut strings.

Lyanna followed him in, a preemptive argument hanging on her lips. "Rhaegar, I just _know_ it is her! I see it in her, that she despises me, and would love to see me suffer-"

His irritation peaking, Rhaegar snapped, "You will not have me embarass myself before Lord Tywin's daughter a second time, armed only with your notions!" His uncharacteristic outburst seemed to shock his wife into silence, as she could only gaze at him with hurt eyes. Quickly calming down again, Rhaegar stood straight, and returned her gaze with a hard one of his own. "Put your anger aside, Lyanna. You will break fast with her tomorrow morn, and I expect you to be courteous to the woman." As a gesture of good grace, Rhaegar leaned down to kiss her, but she pulled away, and he tasted only air.

"You want me to _eat_ with her?" She cried out as if he had asked her to kiss the hands and feet of the Lady Cersei. "And without asking me first?"

"I knew you wouldn't agree with it. But it must be done to put aside any hard feelings-"

"I do not want to!" She shouted childishly, with a stomp of her foot to match. "You cannot make me! I refuse to dine with her alone!"

Rhaegar was not easily provoked into arguing, much less shouting, and even less likely at Lyanna. Yet something in her child-like tantrum sparked something within him, perhaps the deepest part of his anger, and it was not shouts that left his lips, but a cold, firm voice that was foreign even to him. "You are queen," he said, pulling himself to his full height. "And as queen, you must do things that do not bring you pleasure. You are a child no longer, Lyanna, though perhaps you once were." She stood there stiff, her face as blank as a canvas with a flame of rage that was slowly being snuffed from her eyes. He cupped her chin in her hand, leaned in close to her, and said firmly, "You will break fast with Lady Cersei tomorrow morn."

Rhaegar saw tears threatening to spill from her grey eyes, but she bit them back, and wrenched away from his touch. "Very well," she said dryly, unhappily. "I will dine with the woman who calls me a whore behind my back, if it please you, my lord." 

Rhaegar winced at her words. _My lord._ Never in the course of their being together did she ever call him anything other than Rhaegar. Nonetheless, he refused to give into her tonight. "Good. I am glad to hear it," he returned coolly, pushing back any anger from before.

He couldn't stand it, quarrelling with her. For one, she was difficult to argue with, armed to the the teeth as she was with her firey temper that exhausted him to the point of concession. Then, of course, there was the matter of _them_ ; he had seen so much of her, of her hurts and sorrows, held her small form against him in so many ways. He knew every little thing about her, everything that made her cry and fall into despair and everything that made her laugh until she couldn't breathe. When he was anything less than gentle with her, it felt as if he had struck her rather than exchanged a few words with her.

 _"You are too soft with her."_ his mother's voice reminded him.

But how could he not? Seeing her now, wrapping her arms around herself as if his cold words had chilled her, and in the corner of her eye a glimmer of hurt...

He pulled her to his chest, pressing her to him. His lips brushed the top of her head, and his hand wandered down to the laces on her back, giving a tug at the loose ribbon there. "Let's go to sleep, Lya," he murmured in a voice very different from before.

Yet she pulled away from him again, looking up at him with a half a glare that mingled with a hint of sorrow. "I do not want you tonight," she announced coldly, pulling up her falling nightgown over her shoulders. Then she turned from him, and he watched her bare back as she settled into bed and curled up around herself.

_Like a child._

He went to bed too, and did not touch her.

\---

When Rhaegar had called the small council meeting, he expected it to go no different than any other: a discussion of the status quo, a summary of the treasury's funds, talk of the various issues regarding certain parts of the kingdom, and then a polite closing to it all.

"Very well, my lords," Rhaegar had said conclusively. "Has anyone else something to say?"

His eyes went around the table, to one side where Tywin Lannister, Master of Coin, Mace Tyrell, Master of Ships, and Grand Maester Pycelle were, all seated after Jon Connington, his friend and Hand who sat closest to him. Seated across were Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur beside him who served as an advisor on the council, and Doran Martell as Master of Laws.

None spoke, and it seemed to end smoothly until an old wound was reopened.

"Before closing, my lord, I feel I must speak on behalf of my house," Doran Martell spoke up, his dark eyes assessing Rhaegar as they always did.

"Speak, Lord Doran," Rhaegar said authoritatively.

"Dorne is fiercely committed to my house, as you surely know." Did he! It took months of negotiations and Doran's appointment to settle matters with Dorne following the war. "And the people of my house are... perturbed, you see." Rhaegar stayed quiet, sensing impending doom. "They are still carrying the seeds of unhappiness from before."

Elia's face swam up to the front of his mind.

"What more do you want?" Rhaegar asked flatly, trying to hide any emotion. "I have done all I could short of bringing her back- which I would if I could, Lord Doran, and true." He was always fond of Elia, always had been, though Dorne believed otherwise. But did he not bury two of his own along with his wife? Rhaegar knew their suffering, though they did not seem to care.

"I know, my lord. But my house still believes you could have done more."

Before Rhaegar could respond, Ser Gerold spoke up for him. "His Majesty cannot undo the past, Doran. Move on." 

"I am aware. But..." Doran paused, looking around the table once before returning to Rhaegar. "Though it has been three years, we still feel you have wronged her."

Exasperated, and feeling as if he were being interrogated, Rhaegar confessed. "I shamed her by taking Lyanna- this, I know. And I did not expect my father to do what he did, but had I known they would be in danger, I would have moved them immediately." Wildfire, they said it was, caches of it stored all about the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast, with necromancers standing by to release them.

"We know this, my king," Doran replied cooly. "However, it is the present we dwell on now, though the past is still very much at play."

Feeling tired all of a sudden, Rhaegar leaned back in his chair. _Vengeance. The Martells will always want to avenge the past._ As if he was not regretful enough as it was. It may have taken Elia's death to realize her importance to him, a revelation that came too late, but he wished for her peace as her family did. So why bring up the past? "What is it, then? What is the issue?" He asked cautiously.

"It has been three years," Doran began, his voice clear and firm. "And your queen has not found a place among the hearts of Dorne."

Rhaegar sat upright at Lyanna's mention, and grew defensive despite himself. "It is I who rule them, my lord, not my wife. If Dorne has any quarrels with her, then they are misplaced, for she has done nothing."

"Nothing," Doran repeated with an arched brow. "You are precisely correct. She has done nothing."

Disliking his tone, Rhaegar returned, "What you mean?"

"I mean no insult, my king," Doran said calmly. "But the woman you chose to replace my sister is less a queen than she should be."

 _"The court hates me."_ Lyanna's small voice despaired in his head.

"The Queen has had a difficult time adjusting to her role," Rhaegar said with a set jaw, his voice ringing out like the clash of steel. "It is not anyone's place but my own to judge her."

He felt the eyes of the small council on him, most of which seemed to disagree. An uncomfortable silence pervaded the room until Doran spoke again.

"Within the first three years of Elia's marriage to you, she bore you a child, and was loved by all, your majesty." His words were reminders, memories of times riding through King's Landing and hearing Elia's name cheered amidst his own. "My sister was sickly and bedridden, yet she performed as both a wife and queen to you, did she not?"

"She did," Rhaegar agreed hesitantly. Despite her brush with death after giving birth to Rhaenys, she did not refuse him another child, though it took time. Lyanna is healthy, brimming with life, and yet...

"The Queen's lack of attention to her people had been understood as indifference," Doran said with a frown. "Dorne is displeased that such a queen would succeed Elia."

"If I may speak, my lord," Tywin suddenly spoke up, his eyes fixed on Rhaegar. "I fear it is not only Dorne that feels this way. The Queen's public engagements with the court here are few and far in between. The people in King's Landing, lord and smallfolk alike, express a lack of... connection with her majesty."

"It is important that the subjects feel akin to their queen," The Grand Maester suddenly said in his weathered voice, adding to the opposition. "Queens are integral to a king's approval. Those who are well-loved find lend more power to their husband's position. If you would recall Aegon's reign..." Pycelle began to mumble the oft-heard lore to himself, until his voice dissipated from the conversation.

Rhaegar glanced to Arthur and Gerold, looking to them for support, but the two remained silent. Mace seemed to find more entertainment in the bottom of his goblet, and Jon was quiet, avoiding Rhaegar's eyes.

"The Queen patronizes an orphanage," Rhaegar suddenly recalled. "Here, in King's Landing. She's done so for the past two years now." A triumphant smile pulled at his lips, but he forced his cool expression to remain.

"She donates money, my lord?" Tywin asked with a frown.

Rhaegar blinked. "Yes, a few times a year."

"Such transactions would be made known to me, my lord. No money has left the coffers to be donated to an orphanage."

_What?_

Rhaegar did not allow for his shock to be conveyed to the men around him. His face remained still as stone. "I see," was all he said, and coldly so.

"An idle queen is worse than a cruel one," Pycelle announced sagely. "For at least the cruel one knows what she does."

A queer chuckle left Rhaegar's lips. "Very well, then," he said conclusively, rising to his feet. "If the realm wants a true queen, it will receive one. Thank you for your time, my lords."

Then one-by-one they all shuffled out, save for Jon and Arthur. The room fell silent, with not a single sound interrupting it. It was both a comfort and a source of surprise. Neither of his men seemed to want to speak.

"Are they right, then?" Rhaegar asked them, his true small council. "Is Lyanna a poor queen?"

"She's not fit for queen, my king," Arthur said apologetically. "She is too..."

"Wild," Jon affirmed, finding the word that Arthur searched for. "You ought to rein her in, Rhaegar, and remind her of her place."

 _Her place!_ That was all they ever said, that it was 'her place'. _What is her place? She is my wife, and her place is in my heart._

"Turn her into a queen, and you won't be half so tired," Jon said with his usual brevity. "She can take some of your public engagements, banter with the ambassadors, and get in touch with the people who don't already despise her."

"It is not so simple," Arthur said with a grimace. "Some women are meant to be queen, and the Lady Lyanna is not one of them."

"A great king deserves a great queen!" Jon cried out, his face turning red as his hair. Though he did not say it, Rhaegar read his true meaning in his eyes: _You deserve better._

"You will see," Rhaegar promised in his steely authoritative tone. "There will be a queen yet."

Perhaps he had been too soft with her.


	4. Cersei II | Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins are not very alike after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double trouble with the Lannister twins- enjoy :)

Cersei II

Cersei was caught between elation and dread. While breakfast with the queen was a milestone in her and her father's scheming, it was still breakfast with the queen. The terrible, tasteless, uncouth queen.

Cersei spent an inordinate amount of time preparing herself that morn, brushing through her hair til it shone like polished gold, dressing in crimsons of the richest hues, and bathing herself in the sweetest smelling oils. And when a servant came to escort her to the queen's antechamber, she seated herself directly in the light so her emerald eyes may sparkle. It was not by any means for Lyanna; it was for the slightest chance that she might see Rhaegar.

Her efforts proved to be for naught, as the queen arrived without him, accompanied only by Ser Barristan, who stationed himself by the door. Lyanna appeared to have taken a fraction of the time that Cersei had prettying herself; her hair hung loose, curls tangling with other curls, the dark brown mess framing her face like a mane. Under her eyes were puffy dark circles, and the edges her freckled nose was tinged slightly red, appearing to be irritated by something. Even the dress she wore was plain, just a simple frock in grey, one of those bland Northern dresses that were meant for work, not gloating. _Like a common girl,_ Cersei noted inwardly, taken aback with disgust. _If I were queen I'd burn those dresses._

Though incensed by her apparent lack of care, Cersei stood, and offered the seated queen a curtsey. "Good morrow, my lady," she purred, giving her a smile she hoped did not look forced.

"Good morrow," Lyanna grumbled, casting her gaze downward to the food at hand. Propping her head in her hand, she slumped forward, and reached for a roll of bread.

Cersei seated herself, her eyes going to the food as well. She had not intended on eating, wanting to appear as comley as possible; her father had hammered that much in her the night before, insisting that the more beautiful she looked, the more ideal, the more the she-wolf would feel intimidated. _"Do not take a single bite,"_ her father had warned her. _"Let her be the one to spit while she speaks."_

Of course, for such a thing to happen, the woman must speak. Lyanna chose to chew in silence, sparing Cersei no sideways glances nor any niceties. Already, the air grew thick with their mutual disdain. Yet, Cersei did not come here to brood at Rhaegar's wife. She came here to charm her.

"How do you fare this lovely morn?" Cersei trilled in her sweetest, most sickening voice. "The day seems to treat you well already, my lady. You are a thing of beauty." Cersei silently thanked the gods for permitting her not to choke on those words.

"It's fine," Lyanna mumbled around mouthfuls of bread, before falling silent once more.

_"Treat her like a queen at all times,"_ her father reminded her. _"Even when she is insufferable, speak with all due respect."_ But then, Tywin had practice in manipulating others so they played into his hands. Breaking men and destroying houses was child's play to him; if only it were so easy as he made it seem.

"I have not seen the prince lately," Cersei said, referring to Rhaegar's son. "The little lord is growing to be the spitting image of you, my lady." The child had his mother's curls and her coloring, so very pale with grey eyes that seemed too mature for his age. Though only a child of three he was slender too, surely to be built lithe and strong like his mother, or perhaps his father. But then, Rhaegar seemed to have left nothing of him in that child- not a wisp of silver hair nor the amythests for eyes. He was destined to be a copy of his mother, poor child. _I could give him children who looked like him,_ Cersei thought bitterly. _Sons as handsome as he._

Lyanna raised her eyes at the mention of her only child, and Cersei found a dim light in them, as if she was forcing the brightness within her to remain restrained. "My son is healthy, thank the gods," she said with an edge of softness. "Beautiful too." Cersei wanted to laugh aloud. How could a child who looked like mud and snow be called beautiful when his father was the sun and stars? It struck her as an absurd adjective.

"May the gods keep him safe, my lady," Cersei said with a nod, keeping her insincerity inward. The queen only gave a nod, and returned to her food, reaching for another roll of bread. The silence returned, stiff and awkward, smothering Cersei. As she watched the queen's cheeks fill with food, she wondered about Rhaegar, tried to find what he saw in this woman. It seemed madness to think that he truly loved her as they say. She was so careless, so uncouth, so very much unlike her husband. He was the sun, and she the moon. It seemed impossible that they were together.

The woman raised her eyes up to meet hers, chewing lazily all the while. "You are quite bold, Lady Cersei," she said with narrowed eyes. "Lying to my husband so." 

Cersei pulled an innocent smile, tilting her head to one side so as to appear the mindless dame. "I fear I do not know what you are talking about, my queen."

"Such behavior may put you on trial for treason. I know spreading lies about your queen surely would." Her tone came out cool and clear despite her chewing. Cersei assumed it was through practice. She did not let it unnerve her.

"I would never do such a thing, my lady. I hold you in high regard," Cersei insisted still, frowning slightly. She could tell by the growing fire in her eyes that she may soon burst, and make herself appear to be the beast she truly was. Cersei wanted so badly to see it, to see the ugly side to this woman, and later twist it to her favor. 

"You may have fooled my husband, but you have not fooled me," Lyanna hissed, her hands balling into fists that crushed the bread in her hand. "I know your type, Lady Cersei, I have been around them for three years. You will not get the better of me." Cersei had to bite back a smile at her recklessness. What she said was true, sure, but it was dangerous words for a woman in her position.

Mustering a level face, Cersei said, "I had only hoped to become your friend. I mean no harm."

"Do not play the fool, Cersei Lannister," she returned with a bitter laugh. "There are already plenty at court, all of which are more amusing than you are."

A heat bloomed in Cersei's chest at the insult. She felt her temper take hold of her tongue, and she let it get the better of her. "You've no right to speak to me this way," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"And you've no right to spread lies about me, and yet you do." Lyanna dropped the crumbs of bread onto the table, then pausing to clap off the remaining dust. It seemed an almost vulgar thing to do when a napkin rested before her. "I do not understand the game you are playing, Lady Cersei, but I suggest you keep my name off your lips."

"I play no games, my lady," Cersei said calmly, returning to a cool equillibrium. She despised herself for ever stepping out of it. "I had only hoped to settle matters between us."

"There is nothing between us," the queen returned with a sharp glare. "I only came here because Rhaegar asked me to."

_Rhaegar,_ Cersei noted. _Not my husband, not my king, not my lord- Rhaegar._ She wondered if she could ever be so intimate, and hated her for it.

"A smart man. Our king knows best, it seems," Cersei said with a smile still soft from thoughts of Rhaegar. She saw Lyanna's face turn a muted red, blooming with color at the comment.

"Do not think my husband holds any emotion for you, Lady Cersei," she replied with a tight frown. "It is your father he does not wish to offend, not you."

_In time, it is me that he will avoid offending._ When she becomes his wife, she would do everything in her power to please him so that he would only want to please her too. There would no harsh words, no forced appointments, no plain frocks to important breakfasts. He would be so very happy with her, the queen he deserved, the queen he would kiss and make love to and fill with his perfect children. Not anything like this queen before her.

But for now, Cersei would endure. Even as Lyanna glared at her and attacked her pride, she would smile and nod and play stupid until she received what was due to her.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence, with only a few halfhearted attempts at conversation from Cersei, all of which Lyanna did not entertain. She only continued eating, stuffing her face with foods that stained her lips and dirtied her hands, and Cersei quietly thanked her father for reminding her not to eat. But the time did not pass without distraction; every noise, every footstep outside the door, every grunt from Ser Barristan threw her heart into a terror, racing madly in hopes that Rhaegar would walk through the doors and see his horrid queen, just so that he may look at her, then shift his eyes to Cersei and compare the queen to herself. _Perhaps then he'll notice,_ Cersei prayed inwardly. _Perhaps then he'll see me..._

Once the queen washed down her food with a goblet of wine, breakfast appeared to be over. She put her chin in her hands and looked over at Cersei, her grey eyes softer, more satisfied, but still tinged with the clouds of disdain. Without any words she seemed to say, _"Begone now. I've tired of you."_ Requiring no further encouragement, Cersei rose to her feet, and gave a curtsey, one deep and low. Before removing herself from her sight, she said,

"I hope you do not hold me in a poor light-"

"I do," The queen interrupted.

"-But I do hope we may become close." Lyanna's eyes flashed with surprise at her sincerity, and Cersei was surprised herself. A greater piece of acting she had yet to manage, and for that she knew her father would be proud.

Lyanna blinked once before lowered her gaze back down to the plates before her. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but she closed it again, and gave a quick nod, as if caught off-guard with nothing to say. Cersei took her leave then, making her way to the gardens, where she hoped she would see Rhaegar among the members of court that congregated there.

Even if she didn't, she knew she would sleep with him in her heart.

\---

Jaime I

If Cersei liked something, Jaime loved it. If Cersei didn't like something, then Jaime hated it. But when Cersei loved Rhaegar, Jaime didn't know what to do.

Rhaegar was his king, before that his prince, and he had always been a hero. Rhaegar was the gentle lover, the sweet husband, the kind father. Rhaegar was the able knight, the tall warrior, a leader on the battlefield and in his kingdom. Rhaegar earned every man's respect, from the boy who cleaned his boot to the sullen Eddard Stark in the North whose greatest friend was felled by his sword. Rhaegar was Cersei's one desire. And Jaime tried hate him for it.

He cursed his name behind his back, refused to stand watch by his chambers, and carried out his commands poorly, and with little effort. Jaime tried and tried to loathe him for capturing his Cersei's heart, forced himself to dream of slaying him as he so often dream of slaying his father before him, but found that his hate was weak. For every time the man said "Ser Jaime," in his strong, steely voice, his loyalty stirred within him, and a memory emerged. It was Jaime kneeling at his feet, begging him to take him onto the battlefield by his side, nearly choking on tears for all he wanted to do was leave, leave Aerys's side, be blind to his monstrosities, and to hear the shouts of dying men, not a pained queen. "Ser Jaime," he said in a voice warm and true. "Knights such as yourself are a rare sort. I cannot lose you, ser. I need you here, to guard my wife and children while I am gone." His eyes looked so sad then, so earnest, so honest it struck him to his soul. "I can trust no other."

But Jaime failed Rhaegar. Jaime cared for his own life more than this man's family. He cared more for life with Cersei than death with honor, and he let Elia and those little babes burn. Yet even as Rhaegar kneeled among the ashes and held his wife's charred body to his chest, he still murmured, "Thank you, Ser Jaime." He was saying _Thank you for trying,_ but Jaime did not try.

And Jaime could not hate him. He could only hate himself.

Cersei was already in her chambers, entirely nude, when he entered. She did not turn to see who it was; she knew it was him, as twins knew these things through only the sound of footsteps and breathing. Her slender form leaned at the vanity, examining herself in the mirror with sharp eyes that roamed over every inch of her, examining, judging. Jaime came up behind her, and pulled her to him, her bare bare against his chest, with a hand splayed across the flat plain of her middle. He pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck, breathing her sweet scent in all the while, tasting her soft skin. She was so perfect, his sister, so familiar, it seemed more a crime to not be with her always than to be with her.

"Is she prettier than I am?" Cersei asked suddenly. A stupid question it was, with only one answer.

"No." His hand snaked up her torso to a breast covered by his golden hair. His fingers intertwined with the soft tresses before cupping her breast, holding it gingerly.

"Do you even know who I'm speaking of?" She asked with an edge of irritation, her familiar temper flaring up.

"It doesn't matter. My answer stays." She pulled away from him suddenly, grabbing her robe from the chair to tie about her waist. Her hands moved sloppily, making a poor job of a simple task, until Jaime took over and completed for her. Once he did, she buried her face in her hands, which trembled now, like a flower caught in a choppy breeze.

"What does he see in that woman?" She asked with savage dejection. "What does she have that I do not?"

Jaime grimaced at her mention. He grew to despise the queen since Cersei hated her, but he found that berating her only fanned the flames for Cersei's passion for Rhaegar. Thus, Jaime tried to offer as little opinion as possible on the woman, apart from insistences that Rhaegar was true to her. 

"Why does he love her, Jaime? Do you know why?" She almost seemed child-like in her questioning, her green eyes widening in dampened sorrow. He pulled her to him again, pressing a kiss to her lips meant to make her forget all other men, to have her brush aside Rhaegar. She succumbed briefly to his affections, clutching his shirt desperately, but pulled away from his lips soon after to rest her head on his chest.

"Forget him, Cersei," Jaime murmured into her hair. "You have me. Am I not enough for you?" She felt her frown against him, and Jaime knew his answer.

"I cannot very well marry you," she said bitterly.

He took her face in his hands, and insisted passionately, "I'll take you to Essos and we'll wed there, and live together without shame." It was not the first time he suggested such a thing. It was a dream of his, after all, to toss aside his white cloak, push away Westeros, and marry his Cersei. He needed only her consent and it would be done.

She laughed a queer little laugh at his passion, deflating him immediately. "If I'm to marry, then it will be to a king. I have been promised a crown, Jaime, and I shall get it." But it was more than avarice that drove her; Jaime knew that much.

"By what means, Cersei? You and father have tried for years and it has not been done." He was exasperated by their efforts, his emotions worn threadbare by every destructive move they made to take what they desired. "You take Rhaegar for a simple man. He loves that damnable woman, and no amount of moon tea and whispers shall change it. He would not leave his wife any more than he would shame her." _Stop thinking about him,_ he wanted to tell her. _Think about me. Think of me._

"He has done it once before. Who's to say he won't do it again?" Cersei gave a wicked smile her green eyes flashing with delight. Jaime didn't know what to say. "I want him, Jaime. I want to remove the Stark girl and replace her in his heart. I want..." She trailed off, tilting up to kiss him. As Jaime kissed her back furtively, he wondered if she was tasting his lips or someone elses. Jealousy flared up inside him at his favored king, and he held her tighter against him, his arms wrapped all the way around her. His tongue pushed forward, reminding, hoping to erase any other man in her mind and leave him, and only him. But Cersei's want was strong. Even as he had her on her back, legs wrapped around him, Jaime felt it, felt her longing for another man who would not be hers.

"Please, Jaime," she gasped in his ear, nails dragging down his back. "Him, I want him..." He didn't respond. He only wanted to fuck her until she forgot Rhaegar's name.

After they had finished, Cersei laid her head on his chest with her fingers dancing across his stomach, conveying secret messages that only lovers knew- that only they knew. An invisible hand wrapped around his throat, and Jaime fell sorrowful all at once.

"He can't love you like I do," he said in a small voice turned thick with emotion.

"I know," Cersei responded with no trace of remorse. Her fingers only kept moving, brushing, twirling. _I want something, Jaime,_ they said. _Do it for me, Jaime, do it for me._ And all he could do was comply.

"What do you want me to do?"

His sister smiled, burrowing against him. She felt so warm, so soft, and when in his arms, he could pretend that she belonged to him. "Help me break her," she said in a sweet murmur, in a voice that was meant for lullabies and story-telling, not threats and intrigue.

"No," Jaime said tilting her chin up to meet her eye. "I'll shatter her." He sealed his words with a kiss, and her lips curled into a smile against his.

_I'll do whatever you want._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The breakfast scene occurs a little before the small council meeting from the previous chapter, and the Jaime chapter is meant to be the evening of that same day. Just so you know.


	5. Lyanna II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day where Lyanna can't catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know: Lyanna is 19, Jaime and Cersei are 20, Rhaegar is 27, and Jon and Daenerys are 3.
> 
> Enjoy!

Shortly after Cersei departed, Lyanna escaped to Jon's nursery.

She often filled her days in there, spending hours upon hours with her little boy who gurgled and laughed for her without shame. She needed to hear that childish titter now after such an unpleasant breakfast. While, admittedly, Lyanna did not make an honest attempt at pleasantries she found no need to. The woman had smeared her name and lied to her husband; any kindness would have been insincere. Lyanna hated insincerity.

The septa gave her a curtsey and a kind word when she walked into the brightly lit room, but Lyanna paid her no heed. She brushed past the woman and sank straight to the floor where her Jon sat amongst his toys, offering her the first smile of the day.

"My sweet Jon!" She trilled excitedly, pulling him into her lap to press kisses to his face. "Mama missed you so."

"You saw me yesterday, mama," he responded sweetly, leaning back into her.

"I still missed you." She burrowed her nose in his dark curls, breathing in his familiar scent. Lyanna always found it miraculous that he smelled of the North; whenever she breathed him in she was thrown back to her girlhood, warm with furs and bright with her brothers' smiles. She squeezed him tighter.

"Look, mama," he said to her, pulling her out of her memories. "Look at what I got." He held up a ceramic model of a dragon, a statuette bigger than his little hands that was intricately carved to the minutest of details, down to a curl of fire from it's opened mouth, and painted in bright, firey hues. Lyanna had never seen anything like it, but it certainly was not a children's toy.

"Where did you get this?" She plucked it from his hands to examine it further.

"Uncle gave it to me," he replied, reached up with grabby hands in an attempt to retrieve it.

 _Viserys,_ Lyanna noted before handing it back to her son. The boy had always been kind to Jon, but he was not quick to give him presents. His sister Daenerys, however, always seemed to have a new plaything. It was usually up to Lyanna or Rhaegar- if he ever found the chance -to make up the difference. She did not put too much thought into the gesture, and returned the item back to Jon.

"Did you see Dany today?" She asked him, wrapping her arms about his small form to hold him closer to her. He rested his head under her chin, and settled in comfortably in her arms, something they had done hundreds of times before.

"No," he replied with a frown. "Will I see her today?"

"If you like." Lyanna liked him to play with his little aunt more than any of the other children at court, though Jon did see them ocassionally. But Lyanna was always present then, keeping a watchful eye on her little son and wondering if any of them would grow to speak as cruelly as their parents do. Perhaps it was a harsh judgement on children, but it was the effects of courtly life in a strange part of the world. King's Landing was still foreign to her, and Winterfell was the only place she felt at ease. She hoped to take Jon there one day.

"Can you read me a story?" He asked her now, no longer enraptured with the statuette after someone else has acknowledged it.

"What story would you like?" She returned with a smile.

"Any story, mama. From a book."

"Very well." It thrilled Lyanna that he loved stories, for it was there that she saw her husband in him. For when he curled up in her lap and listened to those fantastic tales of old, he seemed more like a grown man than a small child. He did not fidget or whine; he only sat there silently fascinated til the end, where he would then ask for more. He was so very much like Rhaegar; Jon was quiet, thoughtful, and terribly smart, smarter than the other children at his age. He spoke well, understood much, and harbored the rare ability to sense others' emotions, and act accordingly. It was only on ocassion that he threw a tantrum, and then only under the most uncomfortable of circumstances. Otherwise, he was docile and perfect.

She was still sitting on the floor reading out of a book, when someone walked through the door. Lyanna did not pay it any mind at first, thinking it to be the septa exiting, but Jon's sweet voice alerted her as to who it was. "Papa!" He cried most ardently, wriggling out of her lap to greet him.

Lyanna craned her neck up and around to see Rhaegar, watching him raise Jon into his arms. Jon had giggled and wrapped his arms around his neck, burying his face in his shoulder. Lyanna wanted to have a similar response. She put the book aside and got to her feet, walking over to Rhaegar's side. His eyes examined her coldly, she noticed, though she did not know why. It was she who went to bed angry, not him.

"Papa was mean to Mama last night," she teased with a pout. She ran her fingers through Jon's hair, and he pouted back at her.

"Why?" He asked in his characteristic curiousity, looking up at his father for an answer. Lyanna smiled, forgetting her anger.

Rhaegar did not respond accordingly. "Leave us," he said to the septa, who obeyed with a curtsey. Once she exited, he turned back to Lyanna. "What are you doing here?"

Lyanna blinked. "I'm here everyday," she responded cautiously. She suddenly found herself wanting to have Jon in her arms again, her eternal comfort, but when she reached out for him, Rhaegar refused her.

"You should be out in the gardens, with the rest of the court." His voice came out cold and level, with no signs of faltering. Lyanna suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and reached for Jon again, but Rhaegar moved him out of her grasp.

"I don't want to go," she mumbled childishly, reaching for him again. Rhaegar did not move this time, nor did he hand him over, but Jon was too preoccupied with his father's hair, grabbing and twirling it, to notice her.

"Go," he commanded her as if he were commanding a battallion, pinning her with a hard glare to match.

"But Rhaegar-"

"There will be much time for dicussion tonight. Leave your protests for then."

A chill ran down her spine and goosepimples rose on her skin. She hated it, hated being told what to do, hated being promised a quarrel. But she could tell in Rhaegar's eyes that he was in no mood for parlay, and Lyanna was not willing to engage him in front of their son. She gave a meek nod before standing on her toes to give Jon a kiss. As she was turning to leave, Rhaegar stopped her again.

"Did you wear that to breakfast with Lady Cersei?" He asked with a hint of disdain.

Lyanna glanced down at her dress, finding nothing wrong with it. It was a dress she had bought from the North, in the grey of her house, and it was one of her favorites. "I did," she answered without turning, not wanting to see his face.

There was a heavy pause before he spoke again, one thick with disbelief and sated anger. It pressed on Lyanna's throat, suffocating her. "Change before you go to the gardens," he demanded in a low voice that hinted at diappointment. Lyanna gave a nod he didn't see and walked away from the sound of Jon's delighted gurgles.

\---

Lyanna sat in a chair situated under an umbrella that shaded her from the worst of the sun. Without it she knew she would perspire madly, particularly in the layered courtly dress she had her handmaidens fit her into; despite her living four years in the South (one year in Dorne, three in King's Landing) she had yet to grow accustomed to the sweltering heat. Her blood was still the blood of Winterfell after all, of direwolves who escaped North to find refuge in the ice. Lyanna suddenly found herself missing the snow.

Lyanna sipped at a glass of water as she watched various sorts of people pass her by. Most of them paused to bow or curtsey, but none thought to keep her any company. Just as well, seeing as Lyanna didn't desire it anyways. She heard the old familiar whispers, the murmurs and mockeries that berated her character and demeaned her greatly. She did not realize how keen her ears had grown to pick up all these words; yet they heard all, it seemed, and all Lyanna could do was hold her tongue.

Still, not even the heat of the sun nor the cruelty of the court could distract her from Rhaegar's behavior from earlier. Perhaps she should have known something was queer through his appearance alone; he rarely visited Jon's nursery during the day, usually only finding time for his son in the hour before retiring to his bedchambers. But he visited, kept their son from her arms, and sent her away in a demeanor so icy it gave her chills. He was miffed with her, that much was sure, though the provocation was a mystery. It surely couldn't be only her dress that angered him. And he knew that she never went to the gardens...

The sound of excited murmurs sprang up around her, and all heads turned toward the flowered archway. Lyanna stirred too, craning her neck to see the source of the renewed bustle, and found herself looking at an older woman with a tired but pretty face and pale silver hair arranged in an ornate pile atop her head.

 _Rhaella,_ Lyanna noted with wide eyes. She didn't know the Queen Dowager frequented the gardens much at all; on the contrary, she was known for staying indoors, usually alone, joining the rest of the court on ocassion. Her children saw them more then she did, even.

As the crowd parted for her, Lyanna realized that she was headed her way. On reflex, Lyanna straightened her back and put aside the water to fold her hands in her lap. There was something about the woman that prompted neatness in her, like a disapproving mother who couldn't be satisfied unless her children looked their very best. Indeed they did, at the very least the one that accompanied her; three year old Daenerys was dressed in the prettiest of dresses, crimson silks brocaded with black, that contrasted sweetly with her white face and silvery hair. She walked beside her mother with a grace unknown to many adults even, making her a source of adoration. The two of them walked to Lyanna, halting just under the shade of her umbrella as men scrambled to find the ladies chairs.

"I was told you were here," Rhaella crooned in her proud, silky voice. Two chairs were brought beside Lyanna, and Rhaella seated herself in the one directly beside her. Lyanna held her breath as her mother-in-law adjusted her skirts, then leaned over to cover Lyanna's hand with her own. "It is so nice to see you, my dear." Her purple eyes softened for her, but Lyanna was still ill at ease. Her appearance meant something, but what, she was not sure.

"Likewise, goodmother," Lyanna said, remembering her voice. "What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see my son's wife behaving like a queen," she said in a tone that was neither cruel nor kind.

Lyanna couldn't respond; or rather, she could, only not a way that was seemly. Rhaegar's voice was still stuck to the insides of her mind, striking a strange fear in her. She had never feared Rhaegar.

"Mother," Daenerys said from beside Rhaella in a voice that was mature for her age, much like her own Jon was, only she would sob if Jon was so formal with her. "May I sit next to Aunt Lyanna?" Sweet child! Lyanna smiled at her kindness, and wished to pull her into her lap instead.

"Perhaps your aunt doesn't wish to be crowded, Daenerys," Rhaella stated rather than asked.

"Oh, no, it is no problem," Lyanna insisted, earning herself a look from her goodmother. "Daenerys, you may sit by me if you like."

The little girl smiled mirthfully, scooting out of her seat before a servant relocated it to Lyanna's right. Then she climbed up in it again and sat down as before, prim and proper. Rhaella patted Lyanna's hand, directing her attention back to her. She found a tight smile on her face that hinted at disapproval.

"How are you and Rhaegar doing?" She asked in a whisper with her head lowered so that Daenerys won't hear.

Lyanna was taken aback by her question. _Why would she care?_ she asked herself, growing suspicious. _What concern is it of hers?_ Still, she felt compelled to answer, however in a defensive manner. "We are doing well, my lady," she muttered in a guarded voice.

"Then you will be with child soon, I pray?"

Color rose to her cheeks, warming her already heated skin. The matter of children was already sensitive to begin with and her inability to produce them exacerbated her shame. While her goodmother surely meant no harm, it was not something she wanted anyone to discuss; even when Rhaegar brought it up, Lyanna felt embarrassed and slighted. Rhaella was not much more than a stranger to her. A strange ache sprange in her belly, a pain so similar to that of a babe's weight, further reminding her of all she had lost. Incensed, Lyanna didn't want to reply to her.

Perhaps sensing her reluctance, her goodmother spoke again. "You have a duty to your husband-"

"Yes, my lady, I hope to be with child soon," Lyanna interjected, hating that conversation more than the previous one. She raised her eyes to meet Rhaella's, which were placid and calculating.

"Good," she said, and Lyanna prayed that she may leave. The fire in her belly burned still, but was slowly being doused. Rhaella's hand slipped from hers to touch her chin. Her eyes were cast downward to her lap, focusing on a fold in her skirt, and in a trembling murmer she spoke. "Rhaegar... my son, he is gentle with you?"

Her question struck Lyanna dumb. _Gentle?_ she mused inwardly, her brows furrowing as she considered the word. Her thoughts went to earlier that day, then to last night, where Rhaegar's harsh voice rang in her ear. _He speaks cruelly sometimes, but he is gentle._ His touches were always soft, his hands were always steady, and his eyes were usually kind. He had never hurt her, at least not in body, but rather always considered her feelings and working with them.

"He is gentle, my lady," Lyanna replied breathlessly, swept up with her own response.

"Good. That is good," Rhaella said, nodding slightly. "But even when he is not... Remember your duties to him." Lyanna watched her as her eyes flitted up again to gaze at her daughter who was graciously accepting a pink rose from a little boy. Lyanna looked to Daenerys then back to Rhaella, whose eyes were spilling over with an insurmountable sorrow.

Lyanna hoped she would never look at Jon like that.

\---

It felt like hours until Rhaegar entered his bedchambers.

Lyanna had been awaiting him for some time, dreading yet eager for his arrival. After her day with Rhaella, she wanted nothing more than to make amends with Rhaegar. She feared it, that detatched sadness that pervaded her goodmother's soul. Lyanna did not wish to ferment any harsh emotions between them; he was all she had, after all, only him and Jon and her brothers. If she lost one, she would be crushed.

She was situated on the bed with her legs beneath her, dressed in a cream nightgown that was loosely tied over her chest. Lyanna remembered feeling quite warm and contented until Rhaegar walked in, bringing with him a gust of icy wind. He looked different from before, with a look of disinterest on his face instead of disdain. But he was still hard and cold and unreachable to her.

"Good evening," Lyanna said hesitantly, speaking first.

Rhaegar did not reply. He only undid the buttons on his cuffs before moving to the clasps down his crimson doublet. Lyanna fumbled similarly with the laces on her chest, twirling it around her finger, distracting herself from the suffocating silence. Rhaegar had finished dressing into his nightclothes when Lyanna spoke again.

"You had a council meeting today, didn't you?" She asked him, receiving only the silent chilliness from before. "I can always tell, you know. You always look so tense." Lyanna's eyes flitted up to watch Rhaegar enter the washroom, hearing the sounds of splashing water soon after. "I spoke with your mother today," she called out louder for him to hear her. "She was out in the gardens. She asked about you." Still, nothing.

Feeling slighted, a heat rose up into her face. _He's treating me like a child,_ she noted with an edge of anger. _Like a father fed up with his daughter._ "I do not like being ignored, Rhaegar," she mumbled bitterly, casting her eyes down to her lap to stare at her open hands.

"And I do not like being lied to, Lyanna," He returned clearly, turning to pin her with a harsh look. "Yet that is the state of our marriage, it seems."

Lyanna was taken aback. "Lied to?" She asked incredulously. "I have never-"

"There is no point in arguing fact," he interrupted coldly. "The orphanage you claim to have funded has yet to receive a single coin from you." He stepped closer to her until he loomed over her, tall and imposing. Lyanna stood on her knees to gain height on him, not one to be belittled.

"I have!" She cried out in protest, her hands balling into fists. "I receive letters from them that I send a servant to deliver into the hands of Tywin Lannister himself. Ask him, he will tell you." 

"I did ask him. In front of the entire small council I insisted that you did, and in front of the entire council, Tywin denied it."

Lyanna's blood ran cold at his statement. "W-What?" Lyanna questioned with wide eyes. "That can't be, I..." _I do. I do send money, I know I do._ But if Tywin Lannister says it's a lie, who was she to deny it? Rhaegar already seemed set in his decision. Lyanna would protest anyways. "I do patronize them, Rhaegar, truly I do," she suddenly promclaimed with savage insistence. She would not be made a liar to her own husband. "Ask Tywin to see the books yourself. Truly, Rhaegar I-"

"Enough, Lyanna," Rhaegar said with a huff, shaking his head. "It has been made clear to me that I have been too kind to you."

Her heartbeat picked up at his words. "Too kind? What are you-"

"You are my wife and queen, and you _will_ begin to behave as such," he commanded clearly. "Starting tomorrow I will see you with the rest of the court, as is your place, where you will behave as a lady, and a queen. You will speak with the lords and ladies, know their names and the names of their children, and you will make friends instead of hiding indoors with your son!" His voice built up at the explosive finish that left Lyanna slack-jawed and trembling. Then he took a large breath, leaned into her, and murmured, "It is your duty, and you shall not ignore it any longer. I will not tolerate an idle queen."

A heat bubbled up from her chest to her head, filling Lyanna with a sudden passion. As Rhaegar pulled away she clutched the front of his shirt, stilling him. "You cannot make me do what I do not want to!" She protested furiously, her jaw clenching. "I hate them, Rhaegar, I hate their words and their ways. If you make me spend my days with them then you are throwing me into a pit of vipers. I cannot do it. I will not have it!" The infringement on her free will incensed her above all. What had she run for, if not for freedom? Why would she escape if not to remove herself from men's commands? Nay, she would not have it. 

Rhaegar's hand gripped her wrist, wrenching it from his shirt. He leaned in close to her, his lips inches from hers before they curled into a chilling sneer. "It is not your choice, Lyanna Stark, it is your duty." The use of her maiden name and his cool whisper jarred her. "And I will see it done if it means I must drag you from your chambers and tie you to a chair."

Gathering her wits, Lyanna replied boldly, "Then you must do just that. I will not waste my time with those who hate me when I can be with the son who loves me."

Rhaegar threw her hand aside as if he were burned by it. "Must I take away your toys and your sweets to have you comply? Do you insist I treat you like a child again?" He asked in a strained voice, clearly exasperated.

"No!" She exclaimed in response. "You never treated me as a child, Rhaegar. When you first kissed me at four-and-ten you kissed me as a woman, not a child. When you laid with me under my heart tree, you took me as a woman." Tears threatened to spill, turning her voice thin. "Do not pretend as if you have held my hand all these years. I am your equal, and through you I became a woman, and I will not be made to do what I don't desire to do!" She ended her tirade panting, sinking to her legs in exhaustion. Rhaegar blinked at her, surprised by her outburst.

"Then you will not do your duty as queen, and as my wife?" He asked her numbly, his voice filled with an indescribable detachment. "You will not do it, even for me?"

"Rhaegar, I-"

"You wound me," he murmured coarsely. "I thought you might understand that as I am married to you, I am married to the realm. Its pleasure is as important to me as your own." He went to his knees before her then held her hands in his own. "I ask that you try." His lips went to her knuckles, brushing them softly. "I want a queen. Give me a queen."

His words reminded her of another time, a gentler time: _I want a son, Lyanna,_ he had whispered into her ear with a tenderness that put her to sobs. _Give me a son._ Just as before, Lyanna felt her will shatter within her. She was hopeless now, and meek, as her partner in life prostrated himself before her to beg duty of her. "I will try, then," she whispered hesitantly. "For you, I will try."

Rhaegar rose to his feet, sweeping Lyanna up in his arms as he did so. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder as Jon had, feeling small and safe. "Don't be angry with me, please," she begged into his shoulder. "You are all I have."

"Hush now," he murmured softly. "I am not angry." Yet even in this assurance there seemed to be a stipulation. _Do not anger me,_ he seemed to be saying. _Only do what I ask of you._

Had Lyanna been lucid she might felt the arms around her press into her like metal bars of a cage she'd tried so long to avoid.


	6. Ned I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into Eddard Stark's life, thousands of miles away from King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little break from the shitstorm that will soon be upon us all... Enjoy!

When Ned entered his chambers he found Catelyn already waiting for him in bed. Or rather, it seemed as if she was awaiting him, until sleep got the better of her. She sat back against the headboard, her straight auburn hair hanging loose over shoulders, splayed across the front of her cream nightgown. Her hand rested on the large swell of her belly and from the doorway he saw her eyes drooping shut. They opened with a start upon his entrance, and she grew rapt to attention, her back straight and eyes wide. She moved as if to clamor out of bed, but Ned reached her first, pushing her shoulders back to the headboard.

"Do not move," he said softly. His hands slipped from her shoulders to her face, holding it gingerly as he kissed the top of her red head. When he pulled away she gave him a little pout.

"Walking never brought a pregnant woman any harm, Ned," she brooded, feigning irritation.

"Yet I will not take the chance," he returned with a smile.

Catelyn was a little over 8 moons full with their second babe, her swollen belly threatening to relieve itself of the child within at any moment. Ned had been elated when she had first told him of her pregnancy; it had been over two years since the birth of Robb after all, and they both had been eager for another babe. 

"I'm with child, my lord," she had said in the privacy of their bedchambers, a comely little blush coloring her face. After the initial shock Ned kissed her hand, thanking her for the news; she smiled brightly then, her whole face alight with vitality, and when he watched her something sparked within him. In seconds, she was in his arms and kissing her fervently, kissing her for being the woman he married, the one to bear all his little pups who, gods willing, would look just like her.

After changing into nightclothes, Ned climbed into bed beside her, leaning back as she did, his own large hand covering the two delicate ones she placed on her belly. Catelyn gave a girlish giggle before resting her head on his shoulder, and exhaling softly. "How was your day?" she asked.

"Fair," Ned replied curtly, sparing his wife the longer, more honest response. For in truth, Ned did not feel fair at all; he spent the day walking as if there was a weight on his back, a strange sense of earthly doom. It had diluted his thoughts and muddled his mind, and it was not until he saw Catelyn did the fog lift. He felt well again, at least. "How did you fare?"

"Oh, well, you know how it is. Just some quarrels among the servants and complaints from the cooks. Nothing new." She gave a smile at emphasize the lightness of her day. Ned was still amazed by her ability to handle his household so smoothly; he never once had to remind her of her duties, nor did she ever need to ask her to do more. She was the pillar underneath it all; even when her back grew sore from a large belly, she did not bend, instead keeping up with what she had been assigned to do. A paragon of a wife, she was, and Ned was ever thankful for it.

She stirred now, removing a hand from her middle to rest it on his arm, nuzzling it as she leaned further into him. She felt warm against him, and comfortably so.

"I cannot stop thinking about the babe," she said in a heavy whisper. 

"Nor can I," Ned returned, a smile brushing his lips.

"What do you suppose this one will be?" Her fingers effortlessly intertwined her fingers with his, pulling his fingertips onto her belly.

"A son," he said, but not seriously. It did not really matter to him.

"Really? I've a feeling this one's a girl," Catelyn countered. "It's more docile than Robb ever was."

 _A docile Stark,_ Ned mused inwardly. _That would be a rare blessing._ He thought of Brandon and Lyanna, wolf-blood coursing through their veins, pushing both to folly, and one to death. Ned prayed his children would never be so wild, if only to save themselves.

"If it is a boy..." Catelyn paused, tilting her head up to catch his eye. "Will you name him after your lord father?"

 _My brother, you mean,_ he wanted to correct her, noting how she bit her lip to hide the thrill that would surely quicken her breath. He did not blame her; after all, it was he and not Ned who was meant to have her. Tall, handsome Brandon whose wild mirths and wilder rages thrilled women and inspired men. It was perhaps the latter that sent him into an early grave. He was much like Robert, Ned supposed, and to think that both died for the same girl-

"No," Ned said aloud. It was too soon. "I do not think I will."

"Not yet, then," Catelyn whispered, voicing his thought. Her eyelashes fluttered then, threatening to cease altogether. "He would be proud of you, you know. You've done well for yourself." 

_Would he?_ he wanted to ask. Ned did not feel proud. He was content, perhaps even happy, but he could not bring himself to take pride in his life. After the war he fled North and stuck his head in the snow is all. He became Eddard Stark, warrior and strategezier, an honorable man but a loser. He could not avenge father, nor Brandon, nor Robert, and he failed Jon Arryn. _The only thing I ever did right was Robb._

He felt Catelyn's weight lean against him as she drifted off to sleep, her parted lips on his arm and her auburn head on his shoulder. He gently shifted her into a lying position, slowly laying her head on a pillow before he lowered himself beside her.

As he always did before sleeping, Ned prayed for his family's health, and peace for those he lost.

\---

"This is the last of them, my lord," Vayon Poole whispered to him, referring to the farmer and his wife with four little raggedy children in tow who just walked into the audience hall. Ned nodded, stifling his sigh of relief, and motioned for the couple to step forward.

"What ails you, good man?" He asked him from his stone throne, which was not too much taller than he.

"Tis fire, m'lord," the farmer said, standing tall and proud. "Someone tried ta burn me home down last nigh', with all me little babes inside. We do not feel safe, and most graciously ask for your protectin'." His wife nodded in agreement, her scared eyes indicating that he spoke true. The children bustled around her, restless but silent, tugging at her skirt and wiping snot from their runny noses. 

"What is your name, man?" Ned asked him.

"Tomas Black, m'lord of Stark," he answered in a clear voice. There was a certain pride in it, Ned noticed, the sort of smallfolk gusto that came from weathering hardships many nobles wont to know. Not a house pride, but a noble one all the same.

"Where do you reside, Black?"

"'Bout an hour from your good keep. We walked the way here."

"I did not hear of any fire," Ned said with an arched brow. "But I have no reason to doubt you, my good man. I will send men to guard your home by night. If there is any damage, I would be glad to send men to do repairs as well." Vayon nodded beside him, writing down in his little book what Ned just commanded.

Tomas bowed his ruddy head in gratitude. "Thank you, m'lord. You are a generous man." Then he turned to his wife and children, nodding to them.

"Thank you, m'lord," his wife said in a meek voice. Tomas grunted at the children at her feet and they stood rapt to attention, turning to Ned before shouting all at once, and in mistimed voices,

"Thank you, m'lord!" 

Ned gave a chuckle at their practiced eagerness and watched them as they pranced behind their parents as they exited the hall. Relieved, Ned sighed before rising, standing on stiff legs that had not felt movement in the past few hours.

"How many men, then, my lord?" Vayon asked him, still writing in his book.

"Five should do them well," Ned answered. "Two to guard, three to repair."

"Very well, my lord," he said before briskly departing to carry out his orders.

Ned took no more than two steps out of the hall before Maester Luwin appeared before him. His arms were tucked in his sleeves, as they always were, and his aged face characteristically bore no emotion. Ned liked that about him, that he was unchanging and true. He was firm in his loyalties as well, moreso than his father's maester even, and a good man to the weary bone. Ned greeted him with a nod.

"A letter, my lord," Luwin said, sparing no frivolties. The good maester pulled a paper out of his bottomless sleeves and pressed it into his palm. "It is from the Queen Lyanna," he announced in his sagely voice. He did not depart immediately, Ned noticed, but lingered, watching him as he took the letter into his hands. _Lyanna,_ Ned mused, rebuilding an image of her in his mind.

Lyanna sent him many letters. Ned was sure she wore out many of King's Landing's birds through her correspondences alone; he'd receive one nearly every week, long rolls of paper, every inch filled with her lazy script detailing every delight in her courtly life.

Though all her letters bore the royal seal, a round scarlet spot of wax that depicted the three-headed dragons of her husband's house, it was her header that always alerted him to her writing: _Dearest Ned,_ she would write in loopy, practiced script before it degraded into quick strokes that he was quite used to reading.

The maester still stood as Ned slipped his thumb underneath the seal, opening it. _Dearest Ned,_ it wrote. _How are you, sweet brother? And how is dearest Catelyn, Robb, and your babe? I apologize for not writing you for so long. I fear I've become quite busy now. Whenever I want to sit and write you a letter it seems Rhaegar is right behind me telling me to stop..._ Then she went on to list her engagements, summing up quite a bulky schedule, before wishing him well and closing the letter with _Your loving sister, Lya._ It was not unusual in its contents, yet something about it made him frown. It was heavy, he realized, heavy with an emotion she did not wish to convey, with... Pain? Sorrow?

He did not know. Lyanna had always had a way of hiding what she did not want others to see.

He recalled her on the steps of the Red Keep, her head held high with her arm in Rhaegar's, looking strong and fearless and brave as the crowd cheered her lover's victory and cursed her name. Then, only hours later, she would be in Ned's arms, sobbing so that she could hardly breathe. "I'm sorry," she wept savagely, clinging to him as if she feared he would vanish. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so stupid, so..." As she blubbered he heard names, or parts of them: Brandon, Robert, father, Benjen, his own name, as she apologized and wept and wept and wept.

"Do you want to marry him?" He asked her as the wild sobs softened into meek sniffles. "Rhaegar, do you...?"

She looked at him with red eyes, as if shocked to hear someone ask her such a question. Yet she did not answer straightaway; her lips quivered, parting as if to decide on a word before closing again. "He is Jon's father," she had said minutes later. Then in a flat, empty voice: "I love him." She did not answer his question, still guarding her true self.

Later, when the tears were dried, she would ask, "Do you forgive me?"

And Ned, unable to hide, said, "Yes."

"Has something happened in King's Landing, Luwin?" Ned asked cautiously, his eyes still on the paper.

"The Queen has been taking on many public engagements," he replied stonily. "And as I hear it, so have the Lannisters."

Ned ears perked up at their mention. There was no house he despised so much as the Lannisters; they had betrayed them, after all: him, Robert, Hoster, and Jon. As the four of then were winning, reconquering, battling, Tywin poured money into their efforts. He offered no men in battle, only coffers filled with coin which Ned presumed to be a silent sort of alliance. They had even met with Tywin's ambassadors on ocassion, but never the man himself, only through men shrouded in cloaks and intrigue, as they bartered and secured power for their lord for after the war. During one of these meetings, the men had offered Robert Cersei's hand in marriage, should Lyanna die.

"Bastards!" Robert had roared at them, getting to feet and slamming the table with his hands. "Bastards, the lot of you, and your lord, too! I'll have no other but Lyanna, no other, no-"

Ned was charged with dragging his friend out lest he ruin things for everyone, leaving Jon to negotiate for him.

"I'll never do it," Robert had seethed, his large hands balling into frightening fists. "I'll never agree to it so long as there is a chance that your sister is alive. I swear by the Old Gods and the New that I will save her, and I will have her." Ned still remembered the passion in his voice, the unbridled fury that came off him in waves. It was the same sort of arrogant temperment that made him so well suited for war, for fighting, for dying.

His outburst did not hurt the alliance, with Tywin even sending his apologies and another chest of gold. But such amiable actions ended when Robert fell at the Trident, and at a flip of a coin, the lord who aided them helped to decimate them.

"The Lannisters hold only one loyalty, and that is to their ambition," Jon had told him the night after Tywin's men attacked their camps, a fortnight after Robert's death. It was without warning, his armies coming down as sudden as a storm and leaving as much destruction in their wake. "They would have betrayed us sooner than later," he said somberly. "I had only prayed it would be later."

It seemed now that their ambition was at work once again. 

"What manner of engagements?" Ned asked Luwin, his curiosity piqued.

"Lady Cersei does much charity work, I am told, and she is popular at court. Lord Tywin, as you know, is on the king's small council, and has enough coin to buy allies. And Ser Jaime..." Luwin paused, allowing Ned a moment to ready himself. "He is your sister's personal guard."

"This is on Rhaegar's orders?" Ned asked him with raised brows. "Does he truly trust the Lannisters so much?" Ned was surprised by this. While he did not hold much love for his king, he knew that he cared for Lyanna, and that perhaps set his mind at ease in regards to his sister's well-being.

"I do not know, my lord. It may in fact mean nothing." Nothing? Nay, everything the Lannisters did was for a reason, and it was always to help themselves. "However, I felt it worth noting, knowing the history between your houses."

Ned nodded, his mind still reeling. "Thank you, Luwin. You've done well to tell me."

"Of course, my lord," he said with a bow that stirred his large sleeves before walking off to attend to some other matter.

Ned's eyes went to the letter again, scanning it for any hint of sorrow, or a subtle cry for help. It was written in her usual fashion, lighthearted and dismissive, rarely showing anything other than pure contentment. Ned knew her better than that, though; queenship was not something she adjusted to easily, nor something she wished to accept. She was too honest for court, too proud to play a part, and was one who preferred riding unsaddled horses to sitting in a cushioned wagon drawn by them.

 _Rhaegar would not bring her harm,_ Ned tried to assure himself as he put away the letter. _He is smart. He must understand that the Lannisters..._ Ned shook his head, the very thought pressing uncomfortably upon his mind.

He suddenly found himself walking, his body stirring him into distraction and all the way to the door of Robb's nursery. Ned often found himself here when he found himself with nothing to do, playing with his little son until some other task demanded his attention. Opening the door, Ned found Robb in Catelyn's lap, his ear pressed to her large belly.

"When are you coming out?" Robb asked it sweetly, visibly straining to try and hear a response from the babe.

Catelyn laughed her musical laugh, amused. "She can't answer you yet, Robb." 

_She,_ Ned noted. _Catelyn truly does think it a daughter._ Somehow, it made him smile.

Catelyn's eyes went to Ned at the doorway, just now noticing him. "Oh Ned," she said breathily, smiling up at him. "Robb is just as impatient as we are."

Robb then noticed him, his Tully blue eyes lighting up with recognition. He pushed himself off his mother's lap to run up to Ned, reaching out to him with wriggling fingers. Ned scooped him up in his arms, and Robb hugged him tightly. Catelyn looked at them contentedly, a warm smile softening her features. Perhaps unable to resist, Ned walked to her and leaned down to kiss her.

"You've nothing to do either, then?" Ned asked her with his own smile.

"I'm sure I do," she admitted. "I only wished to see Robb for a little. That, and the baby began to kick and I needed a place to sit."

Ned let out a chuckle, amused. The letter inside his doublet reminded him to grow serious again. He reached for it and handed it to Catelyn, who fell stoic as well. "You have a woman's heart, Catelyn," Ned told her. "Perhaps you may read her words better than I."

"It's from your sister," she said flatly as her eyes went down the paper. He waited as she read, spending the time tickling Robb who would interrupt him to cover him with sloppy, wet kisses. Then he grew restless, as children are wont to be, and wriggled out of his arms to climb back into his mother's lap to hug her round middle. Then Catelyn spoke again: "Why, they are always blooming," she announced suddenly.

Ned furrowed his brows. "What?" He didn't recall anything of the sort being in the letter.

"Look, underneath the seal," she explained, showing him the red stained spot where she peeled off the wax. "My sister and I often hide messages there ourselves." In small writing it read, _Are the roses blooming? Be sure they are in soft soil, with no creature nearby to trample them. Only then can they bloom._

"Of course they're blooming," Ned answered dumbly. Then the letter dropped to the floor, and Catelyn pressed a hand to her belly.

"Oof," she huffed before giving a nervous giggle. "Ned..."

"Oh, gods," he cursed. "The Maester- I-I'll fetch Luwin. Robb, go fetch- no, I'll do it, I, uh, it's my job, I..." His mouth went dry, unable to utter another word.

"Do hurry, my love."

"Right! Of course."

Lord Eddard Stark was a warrior and strategizer, an honorable man and a loser, but none of that mattered when it came to his family.


	7. Rhaegar II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar faces adversity from those around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! I've been super busy with things and Rhaegar POVs are the most diffifult to write. Enjoy!

"This place has become crawling with Dornishmen," Jon seethed with a wrinkle of his nose.

Rhaegar glanced around the empty council room, searching for the men in question. "They are here on my invitation, Jon," Rhaegar assessed cooly.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, crossing his muscled arms. "All they do is eye you like all the world's troubles are your fault."

"Some of them are."

"You are too merciful a king, Rhaegar. They'll kill you for it." he shot back unabashedly. Jon was the sort who did not hide behind candied words, preferring to tell a horrible truth than to soften it.

"Perhaps," he replied. He had often considered that sentiment, attempting to understand whether his was too soft on the people that mattered. His magnaminity was perhaps most obvious in his treatment of the rebel forces after his victory; he asked that they only bend the knee, and to consider the possibility of their children to be taken as wards in King's Landing.

Jon hadn't liked that. "They are your enemies!" He cried out in a private meeting much like the one they were having now. "They've hurt your kingdom, and now you hurt them!"

"Have they not hurt enough?" Rhaegar asked somberly, recalling Lyanna the night before, trembling in his arms as she begged him to spare them. She had whispered her brothers' names in her troubled sleep all through the night. "I will not make enemies when it is allies that I require. Should any object, then I shall make them hurt."

"They are rebels!" Jon tried to protest.

"It is my father they rebelled against," Rhaegar corrected him with an iron firmness. "He is dead and I remain. I am not my father's son, Jon." His friend had softened then, his arms falling limp to his side. "I will aid those who have fallen to me, not burn them."

Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Stannis Baratheon, and Eddard Stark had all quietly bent the knee.

"Your kingdom has been silent, save for those Dornishmen," Jon said now, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder for how long?" He was referring to the four defeated lords, of course, who he still held in disdain.

"They were men as tired of war as we were. I do not believe they will be eager to fight, nor do they have reason to," Rhaegar assured him with a grim frown. "The lords live peacefully now. I am sure they prefer it so."

"Aye, I suppose," Jon agreed with a frown. "It was that bastard Robert, wasn't it? He loved fighting more than he loved fucking, which he loved a great deal." He said this with a scoff, as if disgusted by him. "Was hiding in a brothel in Stoney Sept, he was, when I got there. And how was I supposed to bloody know he had men coming from the North?" He began to grumble about his loss, cursing what was surely the greatest failure of his life. It was a tirade Rhaegar had heard a hundred times before.

"Perhaps Robert was the source, but Stannis does not desire vengeance for his death." When asked what would earn his fealty the sullen lord had said, _"Peace. Peace, and Storm's End."_

"Aye," Jon agreed again, still not convinced. "I suppose."

Rhaegar sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Lord Arryn is an old man. Lord Stannis is a quiet man. Lord Hoster is a tired man. And Lord Eddard..." _Is my goodbrother,_ he recalled, however strange it was. "If he rebels against me then he rebels against his sister. As long as she is by my side, Lord Stark will not look for vengeance." It felt strange to speak of Lyanna as a political strategy when that was perhaps her least favorite thing. Still, it was the truth; Eddard Stark loved his sister too fiercely to bring any form of harm to her.

Jon looked off to the side, brooding as if he were comtemplating something. Rhaegar studied his strong features, searching for their meanings. "Wives are pretty useful then, aren't they, Rhaegar?" Jon said with a hint of jest, giving a small smile.

"Perhaps you ought to get one of your own, Jon," Rhaegar returned, illiciting a sudden frown on Jon's hard face. "You need sons to give your lands to."

"No," Jon said fiercely, balling his fists. "I'll give my lands to no one but you. I-" Jon was then cut off by Arthur's entrance, whose white armor rustled and shone as he stepped into the room.

"I apologize for being late, your grace," The Dornish knight said, bowing before he removed Dawn from his back, leaning it on the table, and seating himself.

Rhaegar nodded dismissively, eyeing the knight. He had perturbed him recently, and in a manner that was none too subtle; perhaps Rhaegar was being crude or ungrateful, but it was a matter that gnawed incessantly at him."Ser Arthur, I've a matter to bring discuss with you." Already he felt discomforted in speaking.

"What is it, my king?" Arthur replied, intense dark eyes meeting his. So much unlike his sister's pale eyes, they were, though the light had gone out of them now.

"When I came to you offering the honor of guarding your queen, you denied it," Rhaegar said stoically, trying to appear as cold as possible with his good friend. "Might I ask why?"

Arthur did not spare any emotion. "You gave me a choice, your grace, did you not? I chose not to, and Ser Jaime chose to do it." While Rhaegar was not upset at Jaime's position as his wife's guard, as he was a man he throughly trusted, Arthur's refusal still disturbed him. What reason did he give him in order to earn such disdain? Arthur had a choice, yes, but his choice should have been clear. "I did not mean it as a slight against your grace," Arthur added solemnly. "It is only what I have chosen to do."

The men fell silent, each one looking at the other with a strange tension. Rhaegar could not see the deeper truth behind Arthur's words, or perhaps he feared it. His greatest friend, a man who was more his brother than his own blood...

The answer revealed itself to him.

"You are not fond of her, then? The Queen?" Rhaegar asked evenly, voicing what he truly wished to know. As Arthur remained as quiet as death, Rhaegar remembered Elia. Dornish and dark like him, faithful and proud, like him. Arthur had a fondness for her- Rhaegar had known that. At the tower, he held a fondness for Lyanna as well. Yet ever since the fire... "The Queen would be heartbroken to hear it, Ser Arthur," Rhaegar said with a sad smile. It pained him to see it so clearly.

"Her heart is no matter of mine, your grace," Arthur returned with an even tone.

"I suppose it isn't," Rhaegar agreed, cast his eyes downward. "Nor is it Ser Jaime's, I'm afraid." _It is mine,_ Rhaegar mused. _Her heart is mine to protect._

Jon suddenly cleared his throat, perhaps hoping to dispel the awkward tension that pervaded the room. "Now then," he said anxiously, laying his hands flat on the table. "Why have you called us here?"

"Lord Tywin," Rhaegar announced, folding his hands in front of him. The Master of Coin had been of much interest to him as of late, what with his wealth and his son's position as guard to Lyanna. Not to mention, of course, his daughter, who even Rhaegar understood to be hugely popular with the members of the court.

"What of him?" Jon inquired with narrowed eyes.

"Am I wrong to trust him?" His mad father had, and thus left the Lord of Lannister to run the kingdom as he pleased. Rhaegar did not want that; it was his kingdom, one rightfully earned, and he would not have it taken from him.

"He is a Lannister," Arthur said with much disdain, grimacing as if he had tasted something foul. "Lannisters should never be trusted."

"Yet he is my Master of Coin and his son is my wife's protector. I have already trusted him, haven't I?" Rhaegar returned.

"I suppose," Arthur agreed. "But perhaps wrongfully so." He frowned, his dark eyes flashing with concern.

"Perhaps," Rhaegar mused aloud. He suddenly recalled Lyanna's insistence that she sent letters to Lord Tywin asking that funds be sent to the orphanage. She had protested with such zeal then, her eyes wide with disbelief as she shook her head and promised. But Tywin insisted the opposite. _Is he a liar, then? Have I placed my trust in a liar?_ Rhaegar couldn't bear dishonesty more than anything.

"He is a bloody rich bastard," Jon interjected, pulling him from his thoughts. "It's wise to keep him close."

"Just as I intend to do." Rhaegar rose to his feet, with his friends quickly following suit. "Arthur, accompany me to Lord Tywin's solar." _There is something that I must do._

"Of course, your grace."

\---

When Rhaegar arrived at Tywin Lannister's solar, he did not expect to see Cersei there as well.

Granted, Rhaegar had arrived largely unannounced, likely catching the lord by surprise and allowing him no time to send his daughter away, but she was a sight that Rhaegar would fain regret seeing. She had been sorting through her father's piles of papers on his desk, evidently organizing them in a manner that might make it easier on her father. When Rhaegar came in, she was still much at work until her father announced him, "My king- to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Then she shot up like a flower, her back straight with her green eyes respectfully laid upon on him, and Rhaegar felt an involuntary jolt throughout his body. Yet such feelings were easily brushed aside by him as his focus returned to her lord father.

"I had hoped to look over the books with you, my lord," Rhaegar said in response. "It has been some time since I had last reviewed them."

"Of course, my lord." Tywin gestured to the large leatherbound book in the center of his desk, it's edges worn due to use throughout the ages. "Ah, your grace," he called to him. Rhaegar raised his eyes. "I do not believe you have met my daughter."

Rhaegar allowed himself to look back to her. "I've had the pleasure, my lord." She curtsied low for him, sending her golden locks pouring down the front of her scarlet dress. When she stood again, he extended a hand across to her, which she accepted demurely. "I pray you have been doing well, Lady Cersei," he said to her in a practiced voice, sweet and charming before pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

"And you, your grace," she replied kindly, looking up at his through her long lashes.

His hand left hers to touch the book, running a long finger down its supple edge. He turned open the tome, then fingered for the ribbon that marked it's last page of use, and flipped to it. Words were scrawled down the page, filling up every inch in a small script, each category separated in columns for amounts, dates, actions, authorizations, institutions. His eyes scanned the columns quickly, trying to pick up on a few choice words that may confirm or disprove his thoughts.

"Is this regarding the Queen's charity, your grace?" Tywin asked, pulling Rhaegar out of his thoughts and catching him by surprise.

"Y-Yes," Rhaegar admitted, blinking at him. _How did he know? The matter was discussed moons ago..._ He had known Lord Tywin was a sharp man, but how sharp, he did not know.

"Well, as you can see, there have been recent withdrawals by her grace." He flipped through the pages to point out recent instances of donations. His finger rested at a date from several moons ago. "Nothing was authorized by her before this date."

Rhaegar frowned. Was she lying, then? The date indicated was after their quarrel, after she made her first efforts at reformation. When Tywin's finger left the page, Rhaegar flipped back, page by page, until he reached the beginning of his rule, over three years past. There were no other transactions. Concluding, Rhaegar closed the book none too happy.

"I am glad to see that the coffers are still full," Rhaegar said aimlessly. "I was wise in choosing you for your role, my lord." Tywin put a hand to his chest and gave a shallow bow.

"I must admit, your grace, that I was hardly alone in this," Tywin said. Rhaegar furrowed his brows. "Without my daughter, the door you walked through may have been very well barricaded by piles of papers." He said this with a small smile, one that was unusual for the solemn man. Cersei smiled also, and lowered her eyes modestly.

"My father exaggerates," she said sweetly. "I only help a little."

"I couldn't do without her," Tywin protested, and in a manner that was more aggressive than soft-spoken.

Rhaegar watched them exchange a queer look, and interjected, "Has the queen been coming directly to you for coin, Lord Tywin?" 

Tywin looked back over at him, his green eyes inquisitive. "No, your grace. She sends servants to deliver such requests to me."

"She has sent servants in the past," Rhaegar recalled Lyanna saying. Whether it was true or not, it was still much unknown. "These are reaching you well?"

"They are, your grace."

"It is strange that they did not reach you before," Rhaegar mused aloud, raising a brow.

"It is not uncommon for items of importance to... _slip_ between a servant's fingers, your grace," Tywin said.

"The Queen should be rid of such servants," Cersei suddenly spoke up. Her eyes appeared hard, but her features were soft. "My mother was always quick to toss those who could not perform their jobs to perfection." Such strength! It almost seemed an insult, yet it was nothing more than a mere statement. It could stir a man into immediate action.

"I do agree," Rhaegar said off-handedly. His attentions were on Cersei, watching how the sunlight reflected off her golden hair. It was nearly mesmerizing, how it shone and gleamed, catching each bit of light that poured through the window. She was lovely, truly, and with an entrepenurial mind to boot. When Cersei bit her lip, Rhaegar lowered his eyes, feeling as if he'd overstepped a boundary. He felt quite foolish to have looked at her so, and for as long as he did. She was only a woman, after all, and a beautiful one- Rhaegar had always had an affinity for the beautiful, though he never let his thoughts stray from his wife. But she had enraptured him, if only for a little, and Rhaegar felt her spell slip off his shoulders. He cleared his throat and said, "I apologize for my intrusion, my lord. I shall be on my way now."

"Very well, your grace," Tywin said, giving a short bow. Cersei followed suit and curtsied.

"Rhaegar," he said softly, his eyes darting to Cersei as he spoke. "You may call me Rhaegar, my lord."

He stepped out of the room as some may step out of a dream.

\---

Rhaegar entered his chambers to find Lyanna as she had often been as of late: fast asleep. It was surely the result of the work she did during the day which, while substantial, Rhaegar knew only tired her because she despised it and resisted it. She would spent most her time with the court, may go riding with some of the ladies, visit charitable institutions in King's Landing, and attend to the more minute matters of queenship, such as seating arrangements, penning letters, and the foods for supper. She worked hard, that much was sure, and it evidently took a toll on her. Not that Rhaegar had spoken to her much at all recently, save for a few words in the mornings and dialouge in the evenings that only occured when she was awake. Needless to say, their marriage had become one of pleasing others instead of pleasing themselves. Oddly, Rhaegar found no qualms with this; it was what he had wanted of her since they arrived to the city. That, and children, which her exhaustion did admittedly hinder.

He had stripped down to his trousers when Lyanna's groggy voice called his name: "Rhaegar?" She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as the sheets slipped from her body to reveal her breasts, small and bare and tipped with red. "Oh, I'm so glad. I'm so glad you're here," she breathed, smiling. "I tried not to sleep, but I simply couldn't, I was so tired. You see, I..." she trailed off and bit her lip.

She needn't say any more. He was in their bed in moments, palming her firm breasts and kissing her most fervently until she was on her back and he was inside her. Though he touched her and felt her lips, it was not until he had his hands on her hard thighs did he notice how cold she felt. The fire within her that normally warmed her skin seemed snuffed, blown out by a mighty wind. She did not clutch at his back with fierce passion as she usually did, nor did she make any attempts to turn him on his back and ride him. When his lips left hers to kiss at her neck, she sighed softly and muffled her cries so they were nothing more than gasps. Not even the smallest chuckle escaped her lips, where usually boisterous laughs would take place. It was unlike her to be so quiet, unlike her to lay beneath him so still, so cold. He had only had her like this few times before, in times of grief that he tried to ease, but to little avail.

Perhaps on a different night he might have paused to inquire as to her health, but Rhaegar would not stop; he needed her, needed to make love to her, to hold her to him in order to ease his mind. Moreover, he needed her to have his seed, for it to quicken and to produce a child that prove her worth to the court. It meant another heir for him, and proof of fertility to everyone else. _I must, I must..._ A semblence of a peak appeared when she let out a soft cry, her nails digging into him before they slipped, and Rhaegar clutched her wrists then, pressing them to the bed on either side of her. Their hips aligned with each others, their stomachs touched, and her breasts pressed against him as he was flat against her, and with a final thrust and a whisper of her name, he concluded, achieving his desires.

He turned to sit up in bed, laying back against the headboard as they breathed heavily, worn by their quick impassioned affair. But then Lyanna fell silent and turned on her side, hiding her face from him. It was unlike her too, not to quickly seek sanctuary in his arms, instead choosing to hold herself.

"Lya?" He said her name affectionately, trying to draw her to him. She remained silent. He turned his torso to her, and when he laid a hand on her arm, she sobbed. "What's wrong, my sweet?" He asked with much concern, baffled by her sudden bereavement.

"I hate this!" she cried out between tears. "I hate it all! Oh Rhaegar, I cannot, I cannot, please..."

Rhaegar was taken aback. It was unlike her to cry, especially with so little shame as she did now. They were childish tears mixed with womanly ones, sobs that were thick with sorrow and pain. A panic sprouted within him.

"What? What is it?" A sudden fear arised that he might have hurt her, and his eyes quickly scanned her body for any blooming bruises. When he found none, he asked again, "What is it, my love?"

"I cannot do this!" She cried. "Every day I go and try and please a court that is unpleasable, go riding with ladies who I find unbearable, go see orphans, rooms full of children and I-" She broke off, dissolving into another raucous set of sobs.

Rhaegar pulled her into his arms then, moving her small body onto his lap. He smoothed her hair as she sniffled and choked and kissed the top of her curly head. "Hush, Lya, hush," he told her in a voice laden with kindness.

"Our marriage suffers for it," she hiccuped after her sobs fell quiet again. Her voice came out thin and hurt. "I hardly speak to you anymore. We don't talk. We hardly kiss or make love. And Jon..." She suddenly shivered against him, and he clasped her tighter, rubbing her arms which were now covered with goosebumps. Lyanna tilted her head up at him to gaze at him through wet eyelashes. Rhaegar felt a twinge of pity for her. "I hardly see Jon. Only at the end of every day, I see him. Today... Today I saw him, just a few hours earlier, and he hugged me and kissed me, and rubbed his curly hair all over my face." She gave a slight smile then, pleased by the memory. "Then he said to me, 'I missed you, mama.' I asked why he would miss me and he said he just did, he just missed me. 'I want you to come see me more', he said." The smiled faded now, replaced with quivering lips. "This is my son, Rhaegar, my only son."

Before another crying spell could come along, Rhaegar tilted her chin up and kissed her salty lips. She felt warmer now, less frigid than before, but still chilled. "It is only for a little while longer, Lya," Rhaegar assured her softly, looking into those stormy grey pools. "Once you win favor with the court, you will no longer have to see them so often. It is only for now." He hoped that those words would quell her, but it did not do so. Lyanna frowned and furrowed her strong brows, making a clutch at his chest.

"I will never win favor with them," she said with a worn ferocity. "They care not one whit for me. I am still the Whore of Winterfell to them, your soiled bride, and they will not accept me. The lords do not respect me and the ladies have sworn their loyalties to Cersei Lannister." Her voice growled at her name, yet Rhaegar only received the image of her gorgeous in the sunlight. "They want a fool. A queen who will bend to their wills and fall clueless to their japes. I will not become what they want me to be."

Rhaegar sighed at her difficulty. "They are not asking for a fool, they are asking for a queen."

"And I have given them one!" She exclaimed furiously, widening her eyes. "What more must I do? I have given them my time and my happiness and they treat it with scorn. What else must I give them?" Her nails dug into his arm, as if she were trying to push her thoughts into his skin and make him understand. "Let me give up. Let me go back to loving you and Jon, and let them jape and hate. I have tried to know them, and they despise me for it. I will bear that in silence." She raised her head to meet his eye, revealing a somberness to her features that seldom pervaded them. "They do not want me for queen. Nothing may change that."

Rhaegar kissed her mouth, silencing her grief. Her lips fell stiff against his, unmoving, unhappy. When he pulled away her eyes were open, still as sorrowful as before. "You swore to me you would try," Rhaegar murmured. "Did you not?"

Lyanna blinked and lowered her gaze, hiding her face from him. "I did," she rasped in a whisper.

"Then try." He put a thumb to her swollen lower lip, rubbing it tenderly. "Make them love you."

"They cannot love me. They will not love me. I no longer want them to love me," she said flatly. "I want them to fear me." Her voice dripped with an unearthly pride, the sort that would send shivers down the spine of a lesser man.

Rhaegar could only blink, taken aback by the frankness of her response. Queens weren't meant to be feared; they were meant to be loved and adored, in the fantasies of all men and women as the archetypal wife. Fear was for the warrior queens who fought in battles and burned down villages in order to procure their title. Like Rhaenys and Viseyna, like Nymeria and Shiera. Rhaegar looked at Lyanna and wondered at her response; she fought no battles but the ones inside her mind and her heart. Such battles were never acknolwedged by others as a basis for fear. So what was Lyanna thinking?

Trying to compel her to rationality, Rhaegar said, "Fear comes later, sweet Lyanna. For now..." He ran his fingertips down her back the way she knew she loved best, and she shuddered in his arms. "Make them love you. I know you can."

"But..." she said in the beginnings of a protest before silencing herself. Suddenly, she wrenched herself from his arms, crawled under the covers, and turned her back to him. "Very well," she said mechanically, coldly. "I will continue to try."

Rhaegar stifled a sigh. "Good," he said, before laying down as well. Unable to resist, he pulled her to him, nestling her body in the crook of his own. "I know you may do it yet. You told me once that you cannot bear to lose. Are you willing to lose to them?" He smiled against her neck, hoping to lighten the heavy air around them.

"I have already lost," she whispered softly. "I lost the moment you brought me to this city."

Rhaegar couldn't reply. He stayed awake to listen to the sound of her soft breathing slow into sleepy sighs before he closed his eyes. On the brink of conciousness, he felt Lyanna's cold fingers wrap around his own, pressing his open palm to her middle. Then, a whisper in the dark: "I'm with child, Rhaegar."

Sleep could not stifle the joy he felt surge through his brain, nor could it silence the inescapable dread and fear that followed.


	8. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime guards the Queen, but what does that mean for everyone else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Kingsguard is comprised of Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, Jaime Lannister, Jonothor Darry (whom I decided is not dead), Ser Richard Lonmouth (replacing Prince Lewyn, who is dead), Oswell Whent, and Barristan Selmy.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Don't you become all sweaty when you have your hair down?" A lady of the court asked the Queen. Jaime was close enough to hear this exchange, and was bored enough to pay attention to it.

"No, not at all," Lyanna answered with a smile. "I'm quite used to it." She always did that, smiling. Jaime found it infuriating.

The lady and her friend wrinkled their noses. "And your dress? Isn't it too heavy for the weather?"

"Perhaps a little," she replied. "But it is from home."

"The North must be terrible!" Exclaimed one of the ladies, making a scrunched face. It did the woman's appearance no favors.

"Can you imagine dressing like that?" asked the other, making a similar face. Jaime nearly laughed at their identical disgust.

"How awful!"

Then they gave insipid giggles as they curtsied and walked away, as if something terribly amusing had occured. The Queen remained smiling.

It was a usual day at court, with Jaime accompanying the Queen as he always did. The event that had just transpired was quite normal as well. The members of court often behaved cruelly to her, berating her all while she remained smiling serenely. A lord may utter a lewd comment or a lady may criticize her dress and Jaime would remain silent and watch as she suffered beneath the surface. He nearly pitied the poor woman, though not enough to forget his place and come to her aid. That would going against his father's plans. His father did not pay the people at court to behave cruelly toward the Queen so that his own son may step in to save her. Thus, Jaime stood and watched and learned.

He learned, for example, that Lyanna despised the court and all its intrigue. that she thought them all to be insincere and cruel. Jaime was sharp enough to notice the tears that filled her eyes when she left an orphanage, how one hand clutched her heart and the other pressed to her stomach, as if a sharp pain was gnawing at those two points. He learned that she was a spirited being, easily roused into passion that she could hardly refrain from acting upon, though she supressed her nature in public. Her heritage, however, she did not temper; she dressed like a Northerner, spoke like a Northerner, and prayed like a Northerner, but behaved like a good Southron lady before them all, which won her favors with no one. But perhaps the most pitiable thing about the Queen was her efforts to appeal to the court, and the cold disdain they exhibited in return. 

"Ser Jaime," Lyanna called out to him. He made no effort to move, as he always did, forcing her to call his name several times. "Ser Jaime," she says again, and he remains in his place, supressing a smirk. She looked to him now, commanding him with both eyes and mouth. "Ser Jaime, escort me to my chambers. I do not feel well." Jaime picked up his feet then, slowly lumbering over to her, making her wait for him. Jaime always did this in hopes to infuriate her, to have her unleash her wrath in a public setting and humiliate herself in doing so. Then later, Rhaegar would scold her in her chambers and Jaime would go running to Cersei to tell her the wonderful news.

Eventually they go inside together with Jaime trailing after the impatient Queen. Her skirts moved in a swift bustle as she marched indoors until she lifted them off the floor to allow herself quicker movements. Jaime could only see her back as she stormed off, but he felt her rage radiate off her as heat, making him sweat under his collar, increasing his bitterness. Then she stopped suddenly in an empty corridor and dropped her skirts. Jaime stopped too and watched her.

"I am a Stark of Winterfell!" She shouted, twirling around to pierce him with wild eyes of steel. Her red lips were curled into a vicious snarl, and Jaime thought she looked very much like an animal then, a feral creature. "By what right can they jape and laugh at me? Haven't they heard that a wolf may bite- that a she-wolf is quicker?" Her voice nearly cracked at the words, but the resentment was still there. The court had upset her, he resolved, and her fury was bared to him. It nearly jarred him to see her so furious, but Jaime did not allow his mask of indifference to slip. "I am their queen! I demand their respect! Make them!" She balled her fists and narrowed her eyes at him. "Make them respect me!" Jaime remained silent and watched as the flame of fury was snuffed, and she returned to her placid state. Then she lowered her eyes and whispered, "My apologies, Ser Jaime."

It took all he had to hide his smile, though he didn't find it funny at all. He only knew that Cersei would surely find it amusing to see the Queen shout wildly before succumbing so passively to the fate their father had thrust upon her. As for Jaime, he held no feelings on the matter. He was her guard and her toppler, one in the same, and that was all. They walked the rest of the way in silence, watching her back as she carried herself with a slump of a woman unhappy.

They reach her chambers and Lyanna rests a hand on the door knob, to turn it and slip inside. But she paused, glancing down to the floor, before a hand fluttered up to her middle. "Thank you, Ser Jaime," she murmured before escaping to her sanctuary.

Jaime's lip twitched, nearly saying you're welcome.

\---

Jaime sat back in a large stuffed armchair among a handful of his Sworn Brothers. Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell, and Ser Richard were present, all three of them sipping at goblets of wine. They were a quiet bunch, this band of brothers, save for Ser Richard Lonmouth. He was perhaps the rowdiest of them all, quite committed to his drink and not afraid to speak his mind, no matter how inappropriate. Jaime found a sort of solace in the solemnity of the knights of Kingsguard, and thus found Richard, who replaced Ser Lewyn after his death on the Trident, to be something of a nuisance, and had for sometime after his induction hoped that he would learn to behave like his sworn brothers. Such a thing never happened, thus Jaime hardly tolerated him in silence. As for the rest, however, they were men of action, not of mindless chatter like he court he had been subjected to, nor drunken chatter like Richard was spouting now.

Jaime thought of Cersei, of whether or not she was at her chambers yet, and what he might say to her tonight. He rarely had any revelations to share with her regarding the Queen, which earned him no warmth from his demanding sister. Perhaps the Queen's tirade would be of some interest to her, though he could hear her now chastising him for not discovering something groundbreaking. "What do I care of her feelings?" she would ask with an attractive scowl which Jaime would kiss away. If he couldn't please her at one job, he could try at another.

"Arthur's been cross recently," Richard grunted from across the room, the man twisting his wrinkled face into a grimace. "Likely all over the matter with Rhaegar. With how upset he is you'd think he was quarreling with a lover, not his king." He let out a short "ha!", amused by his own quip.

"What Dornishman isn't cross?" Jaime returned with a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Arthur is at one with his people, it seems."

"Bah!" Ser Richard exclaimed distastefully. "They're upset over nothing. The Queen is nothing beside our king. They should pay her no mind."

"You forget who preceeded her. Princess Elia was a true lady, Ser Richard, til the very end," Ser Barristan said with a glare of warning. Barristan too had a partiality to the Dornish people, one that was all too obvious. It was often speculated among his brothers that he had a Dornish lover, though they all knew that Ser Barristan held no women. Yet there was a dim flame in his eyes that showed that he dreamed of it a hundred times. Jaime recognized that flame, understood it, as he had felt it in his own eyes many times before.

"Aye, aye, that she was," Ser Richard relented passively. Jaime watched as the fool of a man downed another goblet, rivulets of the deep red liquid flowing down his chin. Jaime grimaced, unamused. Yet, there was some truth in the conversation that Jaime could not deny, and some humor to be found yet.

"But our current Queen is so gracious and beloved," Jaime said sardonically, giving a wicked smile as he pushed himself out of his chair. "May the Seven keep her safe."

Lonmouth laughed, though he was the only one to do so. Oswell let out a choking sound and Barristan frowned disapprovingly. Of all the Kingsguard, they were the only two who held some shred of affection for the Northern woman, though Oswell's feelings were more painful than Barristan's. He had loved her, after all, and made no effort to hide it.

"How does the Queen fare, Jaime?" Barristan asked him, still frowning. Jaime wanted to laugh at his stiff behavior.

"Poorly," Jaime replied honestly, but with a teasing smile. "In both her conquests at court and in the bedchambers. It seems she cannot win." He broke out into a grin then, proud at his jape. The Queen truly did have poor luck, it seemed, with a court that didn't love her and a husband who rarely made love to her. He heard her impassioned moans less and less times in the past several moons, which was something pleased Cersei greatly when he told her.

"Don't be vulgar," Barristan warned him like a father would his naughty son. "She is still your Queen, Ser Jaime, and you are her guard. Show some respect."

"You're right, Ser Barristan," Jaime said with an exaggerated sigh. "Perhaps I should should treat the she-wolf kindly, lest she bite."

"I pray she does, and puts you in your place for it," the knight returned, still grimacing. Jaime caught Oswell close his eyes tight before opening them again and staring at his goblet as if it had saddened him greatly.

Jaime wondered what these two men saw in her. She was beautiful, yes, blessed with a sort of feral aesthetic and untamed behavior that men hoped would translate well into bed, or onto their own personalities. But there were many women with long dark curls and pale grey eyes, and surely more than a few that possessed a body such as hers, lean and muscled as it seemed to be. Jaime did not think Rhaegar was so shallow as to be swayed by such things, though Barristan and Oswell might, and poor dead Robert certainly was. Yet the King had already had a beautiful woman in his bed when he took the girl, and she was the sun where his new lover was a mere wolf-pup. A dragon and a sun work well together. A dragon and a wolf meant certain despair.

It was of no matter to Jaime. He only had eyes for one woman, his beautiful lioness whose hair shined like polished gold and whose green eyes sparkled like emeralds beneath the sun. Her supple curves and slender form was more than enough for him, and her soft pink lips were all he needed to go mad with desire. Thinking of her now brought a heat beneath his collar, and Jaime suddenly found it unbearable to be a room with three tired men.

He moved as if to leave, but just then another man entered the solar. It was Ser Arthur, looking bitter and disdainful, with a purse to his lips Jaime had rarely ever seen. Yet even in this state Ser Arthur imposed a command of respect on Jaime. He adored the older knight, wished nothing but to be like him, like a little boy admiring his hero. He still felt goosebumps when he recalled the memory of Arthur's Dawn resting on his shoulder, it's weight heavy with steel and honor as he knighted him. Arthur had been glowing, shining then, as bright as the star of his house. Tonight he fizzled and struggled to flicker.

Jaime watched as Arthur reached for a goblet of wine, put it to his lips, and put it back down before a drop touched his tongue. Then room immediately silenced upon his entry, and all eyes rested on the sullen knight as he struggled to compose himself.

"I tire of it all," Arthur finally said in a thin voice that seemed to ring out in the silent room. "The King, he-" His eyes rested on Ser Jaime before this mouth formed a tight line.

Jaime blinked at him, concerned but more confused than anything else. The knight's dark eyes seemed to bore holes in him, judging and casting a sentence without making a ghost of an utterance.

Arthur turned and walked out the door, and Jaime followed. "Arthur!" he called out to him in hopes of getting him to stop. _He walks, yet he seems to move so fast._ Jaime realized. He became a white blur before his eyes, darting to arrive at a place where he may light up a room. "Arthur, wait-"   
The man halted, and Jaime nearly ran into him. In a swift movement Arthur clutched his wrist, gripping it tight enough to cause pain. Jaime did not wince at it, not wanting to appear meek before this paragon of knight.

"Is distasteful familiarity a family trait?" Arthur hissed at him, dark eyes suddenly ablaze. "You call me Ser, Lannister, as you always have."

"Yes, Ser," Jaime replied in a murmur that he struggled to keep from quivering. The sudden harshness on Ser Arthur's part baffled and frightened him; whatever the reason for it was, it could fare well. It was not to say that Ser Arthur was a cold man, for he could be very warm and had shown this warmth to Jaime on many ocassions by treating him as more than a sworn brother, much like a blood brother. Not even Jaime had such a bond with his mangled brother Tyrion, though their lack of contact may account for that.

Arthur dropped his hand, but his eyes remained locked on him. "You guard the queen," he said in a voice less hard than before. "Your father sits on the small council, but you guard the queen. Your position does not allow you ambitions, and your job is as simple as it is crucial." He stood back now, appearing a giant before him as he straightened his back and looked down at him through narrowed eyes. Jaime could only silently stand in awe. "I have served three queens, Ser Jaime, but I serve the King before I serve the Queen, as I may serve the Prince before the Queen- or before the King. You attend to these people before you attend to yourself, or your family, as they are greater than both. It is why we take an oath to hold no lands, no title, no woman, no child. This is true for you, is it not Ser Jaime?"

"Of course," Jaime said softly, hoping to hide the trace of a lie in his voice. He could live a life with no lands, title, or child, but he would die without a woman- just one, beautiful and fair. But he would not tell Ser Arthur that.

"Then remember what I tell you now," the knight said. "Should any harm come to the Queen, it is your shoulders the burden will rest on." An unwanted image of Elia's charred body in Rhaegar's arms came flooding back, and Jaime nearly staggered with thw force of it. "You shall carry the weight of the guilt for the rest of your life until one day it will crush you. Whether you bear love for the Queen or not is of no matter. You guard the Queen, and you guard her well." Ser Arthur stepped forward so that he stood close to Jaime, close enough to where he could see the pores on his dark skin. "Have I made myself clear, Ser Jaime?" He asked in a chilling tone that demanded a proper response.

Jaime gave it. "Yes, Ser," he said in a voice he tried hard to mold into words of strength. Jaime did not know if it had such an effect, as he knight left as soon as the words left his mouth, leaving Jaime alone in a darkened hallway with a head swirling with thoughts.

_Why did he tell me this?_ Jaime asked himself, trying to solve the puzzle. _What does he know?_ Ser Arthur had denied the position of guarding the Queen- of what importance is Jaime's execution of that job to him? Moreover, Jaime had done nothing to harm the Queen; perhaps he's inconvenienced her by neglecting to help her dismount a horse and perhaps he's faltered when the people at court openly attacked her honor, but these were small things that Ser Arthur surely did not catch. Nor did the Queen and the knight have any sort of relationship where she may speak out against Jaime; perhaps they did many years ago, but not anymore. Elia's death changed that.

Still reeling, Jaime went to seek sanctuary in his sister's room, where perhaps she'd calm him with her kisses, and later in the comfort of her arms. _"You attend to these people before you attend to yourself, or your family, as they are greater than both,"_ Arthur's voice reminded him. Yet, this could never be true. For Jaime, she was the only one worth protecting. Queens may wither and die under his care and they may toss him out of the Kingsguard for it, but he wouldn't care.

There was Cersei, and only Cersei.

\---

Jaime stood outside the King's bedchambers awaiting the Queen as he always did. Cersei had been warm to him the night before upon telling her of Lyanna's private tantrum. She had smiled so wickedly, accrediting the outburst to her own devices, though they both knew it was their father's. Nonetheless, Jaime let her have her glory so that he may have Cersei.

The door opened and it was Rhaegar who appeared, looking very much the glorious king he played the part of. When his violet eyes landed on him, Jaime fell into a deep bow. He couldn't help but prostrate for him as the very sight of his King inspired an unshakable loyalty within him.

"Ah, Ser Jaime," the powerful voice called to him. Jaime remained bowing until a gentle hand urged him up. "You may see if one of your sworn brothers may take your post today. The Queen will likely not be leaving her chambers. She is not feeling well." 

_Not feeling well?_ Jaime recalled her complaining of it the day before, but he did not think it serious. "Might I ask what ails her, your grace?" Jaime asked, curious. He sensed a pertinent piece of information and wished to hear it.

"It is nothing more than morning sickness, though it has taken a toll on her. She did not sleep well last night either." The King gave a warm smile then. "The babe already appears to be strong."

_The babe?_ Jaime pondered, bewildered. _Surely he does not mean..._

The King seemed to sense his curiosity. "Pray Ser Jaime, that you do not tell anyone. The Queen does not wish to disclose her pregnancy just yet."

Jaime nodded calmly, though the news surprised him. "Very well, your grace. I pray she recovers quickly."

Rhaegar nodded and went on his way. As soon the he was out of sight and out of mind, thoughts of Cersei filled Jaime's head. _I must tell her,_ he told himself urgently. The discovery of such sensitive information would undoubtedly please his father and thrill his sister, for it was another step toward appeasing their ambitions. As he left King's hallway to search for Cersei, he thought of her joy at the chance of ruining the Queen and breaking her spirit. She may smile and laugh and kiss him for providing such exclusive insight, and for another night he would be the champion in her heart. What Jaime did not think of was what may happen the morning after, his sister changing hurridly to go and retrieve the moon tea that would kill another innocent child.

He found Cersei in the gardens, mingling with some ladies. She looked breathtaking in her crimson silks with sunlight hitting her hair and shining gloriously. The flowers around her made her seem all the fairer, as did the maidens. Jaime did not have time to admire her, however, and swiftly went to her side.

"Cersei," he said, touching her shoulder. She turned to him and smiled her practiced sweet smile and Jaime felt himself soften beneath her gaze.

"Dearest brother!" she breathed ecstatically, reminding him of the many other times she'd said that, and in the many other circumstances. "Where is the Queen? Have you not brought her with you?"

"I must speak to you," he said stiffly, wanting the other ladies to go away. They ogled him with wide eyes full of wonder and a sense of reverance that infuriated him.

On the other end, Cersei's face fell serious at his words. She turned to her ladies to excuse her leave with a smile and a nod before walking out in front of Jaime. He followed her until she brought them to a quiet corner of the gardens shaded by grand oaks. When both were sure there was no one around but them, Cersei spoke.

"What is it?" Her brows were furrowed with concern and her lips twitched hungrily, eager to hear any information he would give. Jaime would have kissed her then, but her eyes indicated she would rather he wouldn't.

"The Queen is with child," Jaime told her, anticipating her response. She could react in any manner of ways: fear, joy, anger- or perhaps she would smile in that chilling way of hers that indicated that she was quite content indeed.

Cersei smiled, then laughed. Not boisterously like the Queen was wont to do, but musically, a thousand little bells trembling at her joy. When she ceased, the smile remained, warm and knowing. "I already knew that, Jaime," she said with one last giggle.

Jaime blinked. "How?" He had been first, beside the King and Queen. How could she know before him?

"A little bird told me last night," she answered. Jaime was still miffed, upset at his missed opportunity. He was supposed to please his sister not little birds who flitted around the Queen like a fly. "Don't be angry, Jaime," his sister said, in tune with his emotions as she always was. "I am happier hearing it from you than her."

Jaime still grimaced. "Then have you finished it already? The tea, she..?" Jaime did not truly wish to know, but it was all a part of a plan in which he was irrevocably a part of.

"No, not yet. Not soon either," Cersei said cryptically, still smiling. She turned her back to him, reaching out to touch a rose, as pink as Cersei's lovely lips. "We plan to do something different, father and I." She plucked a petal and Jaime watched it fall to his ground, where it will surely be trampled upon later. Cersei craned her head back to him, green eyes meeting green eyes. "Would you like to know what that is?"

Jaime held his breath awaiting her words, no matter how terrible. Afterward he knew he would kiss her and smile, for it meant he was in her plans, and thus in her thoughts yet another day.


	9. Lyanna III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna, Rhaella, Rhaegar, Jon, and the babe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long! i got all wrapped up and school and had to ignore everything for a while. enjoy!

The first few moons were filled with fear. During the day she watched her every step, careful not to trip or run into something, always keeping one hand over her middle and another at her side, ready to catch herself if she ever fell. She spoke little and listened to less, fearing her temper and what it may mean for the babe inside her. At night she lay awake, trembling until Rhaegar held her to him, whispered words of reassurance in her ear, kissed her fears away. At times horror would grasp at her throat and she would weep alone careful to wipe the tears away before Rhaegar appeared to question them. She still would perform her duties as Queen unless a violent bout of morning sickness prevented her, and through her pregnancy Lyanna began to despise them even more. But for the matter of her child it was her decision to keep it a secret, to shock the whole court through the silent growth of her middle.

By 5 moons there was a bump on her belly that promised to grow. At 5 moons and 25 days, it was the longest she held a babe in her belly after Jon. She woke up that day to white sheets, an ache in her belly that indicated another round of morning sickness, and a warmth in her cheeks that promised that her life's blood was still flowing through her veins. Perhaps that was enough for her to relax, to enjoy the beauty and hardships of motherhood, but it was not until Rhaegar assured her a few days later with the kindest words.

"There is a light in your eyes," he murmured in her ear one evening. She was curled into his chest he kneaded the skin on her back, rubbing away the aches. "This babe shall live to see it." Lyanna wept savagely then, delight clawing at her heart and flushing her with joy.

At 7 moons it was no longer a secret. Lyanna saw how the court gasped and ogled at her prominent middle, herd them speculate as to its fate. Yet, the poisonous words on their sharp tongues were suddenly lost to her, nothing more than noise in the background as the presence of the life inside her drowned them out. Lyanna wondered at the little babe inside, naming and renaming it for either sex that it may be, wondering if it will look like her or, better yet, like its father. Yet it seemed that everytime that Lyanna imagined the babe, she could see nothing but a sweet smile and little fingers reaching out to grasp for her. Her heart fluttered at the image, inclining her to yearn further.

As the babe gave her inexplicable joy, it brought with it a mighty sense of hope. The world around Lyanna suddenly seemed less bleak, less cruel. The burning envy Lyanna had felt at Ned's birth of a new babe near a year ago now seemed less acute, nearly gone altogether. For inside her now was a child of her own, a life she had created with a man whom she loved.

That man had become kinder with the passing moons, sweeter, more romantic. He began to call her to his solar a few days during the week to inquire as to her condition and kiss the worry off her brow. At night he would splay a hand across her round belly, long, graceful fingers strumming songs for their babe to hear. Rhaegar was tender, soft-spoken, and above all gentle when they were together, reminding Lyanna of their time in Dorne. Rhaegar had been more passionate then, having burned for her with a fire that consumed them both. The flame still remained, however wavering, and glimpses of the man before shone through the cracks of the ice that formed between them.

The babe had done all this, and more. Perhaps most notably and most excitedly was the breaks it allowed Lyanna from her courtly duties. She found more time to tarry than before, with none demanding she return to her post as the enduring Queen. The greatest of all these reliefs was seeing her only son that lived in the flesh, little Jon who always awaited her visits every day.

She was in his room today, a room different from the nursery he moved out of upon his fourth nameday. It was larger, for one, and more accustomed to a growing boy. Jon took to it quickly, gushing over his grand bed.

He forsaked that bed for the time she came to visit, sitting in Lyanna's lap instead. Jon liked her large belly; he would wrap his small arms about it, press wet kisses to her gown, and whisper to it as if it were already babe grown. Lyanna ran her fingers through his curly hair as he continued to murmur to her bump, brotherly words that warmed her heart.

"Am I going to have a sister? Or a brother?" He asked her, grey eyes wide with wonder.

"I don't know, my sweet," Lyanna said, smiling warmly at him. "Which would you like?"

"A brother," he answered before pausing, scrunching up his face in childish contemplation. "A sister. May I have both?"

Lyanna laughed, kissing his curly head. "Perhaps, my love. Perhaps."

The idea of twins thrilled her. Though it surely would not be so, she could only imagine the delight Rhaegar would reward her with if she gave.him two princes (or princesses) instead of only one. The very thought curled into a smile on her lips. Footsteps down the hall alerted her of an oncoming presence. Looking up, Lyanna found a woman at the door, an older lady by the name of Anya who was charged with keeping her appointments.

"My queen." The woman greeted her with a curtsey. "Your goodmother wishes to see you."

_Rhaella?_ The last Lyanna had spoken to her was moons ago and for only a brief while as she congratulated her pregancy. After that instance her goodmother had returned to her lonely vigil in her chambers, speaking to few, seeing less. Yet despite her surprise, Lyanna could not refuse. She was, however, a bit disgruntled at having been made to leave her son so soon. _No matter,_ she thought. _I shall see him later, then._

Jon, as if sensing her intention to depart, slid off her lap, but not before kissing her cheek. "I'll see you soon, mama," he said in his sweet high voice, and Lyanna departed after kissing his curly head.

Rhaella's chambers were a ways away, as they were in an unconventional place: The Maidenvault. It had been a mystery to all that she chose a place so shut away and secluded, inflicting on herself a solitude Lyanna imagined to be quite acute. Yet she did not even repair this lonliness through the company of the court, however terrible it was. Lyanna knew that she seldom left her chambers, and that her only visitors were her own children. Her goodmother's reasons for this isolation escaped Lyanna's understanding. She had always sensed Rhaegar knew the details, but the few times she prompted him for it she was brushed away coldly.

The staircase proved taxing and it was not until she felt Jaime's hand on arm did she even realize he was there. He became her shadow since his appointment, always there but largely useless. He now seemed to be bracing her, but as soon as Lyanna turned to thank him, he let go, leaving her to support herself. It was moments like these where he so coldly ignored the matter of her welfare did she remember his house, and, more spitefully, his hateful twin. Hoping to remain in good spirits for her goodmother, Lyanna brushed the thought aside. She could brood over the Lannisters' distastefulness later.

Lyanna gave a sigh of relief once she reached the top of the stairs, taking a moment to regain her breath and steady herself. Her hand fluttered to her stomach to assure her babe that she was fine before she extended it to the door and knocked twice. It swung open before her revealing her goodmother adorned in her usual finery of a gorgeous gown, sparkling jewels, and shiny silver hair kept ornate for none to see. Her goodmother greeted her with a smile, the bright expression a starling change to her somber face, and led her into the room by her hands.

"Dearest Lyanna," Rhaella crooned sweetly, sweeping Lyanna's swollen body through the doorway. "I am glad you amswered my summons."

Lyanna only nodded absentmindedly as her eyes scanned the famous room. It's ceilings were high, marvelously so, that if one were to look up too lomg they would feel a bout of vertigo in them. Lyanna felt it now, though she might have imagined it through her already weakened condition. The walls were made of the darkest brick, a color so grey it nearly seemed black and it walled every inch of the circular tower. As grand and bleak as the room was, she noticed windows, large rectangular cavities that nearly touched that immeasurable ceiling and let the light pour into the dismally grey room. Yet even these bright spots were marred by the symbols of the imprisonment of Baelor the Blessed's sisters, as they were barred with iron rods. Lyanna wondered why such an addition was needed.

Yet despite all of the darkness, there were items of greater hope in this room. Lyanna saw flowers in vases, in pots, in goblets, an array of colors bringing life that was likely seldom seen here. It surprised her to see so many, some of which she recognized from her own home in the North. She must have remained speechless for some time, admiring those flowers so starkly juxtaposed with gloomy brick, that her goodmother spoke up.

"Are you feeling well, my dear?" A cold hand pressed to her forehead, and Lyanna's attentions returned to her with a jolt.

"No, I am quite alright!" She assured her perhaps too enthusiastically. "It is just... I had never..." Never seen this ill-reputed room, never imagined it to be festooned so brilliantly. It left her in awe.

"Have you never come to the Maidenvault before?" Rhaella asked.

"No," Lyanna said. Rhaegar had given her a tour of the Red Keep after her arrival, but she remembered never getting so far. They had visited the Tower of the Hand last, she recalled, and in those last embers of their passion for one another they made love in the top room and neglected to tour any further afterward.

"It is true, I had never invited you, but I wished to amend that today." She showed her to a seat before sitting down herself and pouring water into cups. She offered one to Lyanna, who accepted it readily. The glass had already begun to sweat in her hands, sweltering in the heat as everything else around it. She took a hearty sip, and looked around again. "You are interested in my flowers?" Rhaella asked her, predicting her thoughts.

Lyanna nodded. They captured her attention so, bright and lovely as they are, those little pendants of nature that thrived in a harsh stone prison. She wondered what prompted her goodmother to pursue them.

"I like to grow things," Rhaella explained after taking a sip of her water. "I had a little vegetable garden I tended to years ago, but I quit it during the war. I often wonder what's become of it now." Lyanna scrunched her nose up in thought. She could not recall a vegetable garden on the castle grounds. "But when I moved in here, I started again, but with flowers. Rhaegar brings them for me from all over. Shall I show you?" She stood and extended a hand to her; Lyanna wiped her wet palms onto her dress and accepted the thin fingers. Rhaella led her to the window where the bulk of the flowers sat extending their colorful heads to catch the sun. "Most of these are from Highgarden. They've got so many sorts: roses, marigolds, daisies, and hundreds of types of tulips..." The older woman prattled on as Lyanna continued to gaze at the objects of discussion in wonder. Rhaella guided her around the room, naming the plants as they went, until she paused suddenly, in front of fluffy crysanthanums. "I apologize. I must be boring you," she said with a soft smile.

Lyanna shook her head in protest. "Not at all. I am fond of flowers." And she was. She picked them since childhood despite Brandon's japes that it was very silly and her father bemoaning her littering the keep with petals. She even had some in the Tower of Joy, exotic orchids that Rhaegar had sent from gardens in the more fertile heart of Dorne.

"Do you have a favorite?" Rhaella asked, and the answer came readily to Lyanna's tongue.

"Blue winter roses." Just speaking of them brought on a dizzying wave of nostalgia. They seemed to spring up at her feet in the godswood at Winterfell. They were in her hair, the belt of her trousers, scattered across her room. They were buried with her mother, a beautiful corpse festooned in blue. A crown, soft and expected, plucked of its thorns and sitting upon her head- the wrong head- at a tourney in her first trip South. Blue petals sprinkled on a bed in a tower that was warmed by the sun, and a dragon.

"I'm afraid I do not have them here," Rhaella said, drawing Lyanna from her thoughts. "They grow poorly in the South."

Lyanna frowned. "You have tried?" Lyanna did too. They turned black in a matter of days under Dorne's sun.

"I fear they prefer frozen ground and snows over rich soil and soft rain. They withered quickly under my care. Such flowers are unsuited for the South." Lyanna's heart grieved for them, though she could not say why. It seemed her babe had a heavy effect on her emotions. "But never mind that. We are not here to speak of dead flowers." Her hand reached out and grazed Lyanna's large belly. "How do you and the babe fare?" A maternal smile crossed her goodmother's face, and Lyanna mirrored her.

"Very well. It grows stronger with every passing day." The topic had excitement coarsing through her once again. They were speaking of her babe, her joy, her own flesh and blood.

"That is good to hear, my dear," Rhaella said kindly, nodding with approval. "It appears you did not lie to me that day in the gardens. All was well between you and my son." She said it in jest, yet something in her words brought a warmth to her cheeks.

"Um, yes..." Lyanna mumbled in response, averting her eyes off to the side. All had not been well between them, but it was of no business to her goodmother.

"I must say that I am pleased with your timing," Rhaella said. "There is but four years between this babe and your son. That is a fair difference in age." Then suddenly her smiled turned inexplicably sad, and her lilac eyes were lowered to the pitcher of water before her. Lyanna blinked, noting this change. "I was not so lucky. There is sixteen years between Rhaegar and Viserys; it is through that failure that Rhaegar does not know any closeness to his brother. Viserys, however, looks up to him most strongly. It is sad."

Though this was not new information by any means, her goodmother's sorrow put a lump in Lyanna's throat. She could not imagine such a situation in her own home; Lyanna had taken to her older brothers quickly despite their absences when they were warded South. The six years between her and Brandon did not buffer their love for each other. The four years between her and Ned did less. Yet it was Brandon she spent more time with, once he returned North after his warding, and she only needed to call his name for him to come rushing to her side, ready to protect her...

Lyanna felt a hand squeeze hers. She looked up at her goodmother with misty eyes. She suddenly felt very foolish to cry so, and she hurridly wiped away at her wet face. "I'm sorry," she murmured in between insufferable tears that wouldn't quit, and she heard Rhaella chuckle.

"I'm sorry too," she said, reaching for a hankerchief on the table and leaning across to help Lyanna in her impossible task of drying her tears. "I pray you did not think that I was imposing my fate on you. I wouldn't wish for such cruelty on one such as you."

_Such as me?_ Lyanna thought, her thoughts muddled as well. _What am I?_

"I am not one for empty compliments, my dear, but I will say that you are doing well in your duties as queen and wife. Do not forget them, those duties. And do not let others perform them for you." Rhaella's voice quickly lost its softness, now replaced with a harsh pragmatism. "Rhaegar is my first son. He is dear to me. For as long as you please him, I wish you luck and good fortune." Her rheumy eyes pierced Lyanna's heart, sending chills down her spine. She could only nod slightly, unwilling to reply to her goodmother. Then a smile broke out on Rhaella's face, and Lyanna felt her muscles relax one-by-one. "Very good," she breathed, the tenderness from before returning to her voice. "Now, shall we go look for Daenerys? She has been asking to see her goodsister for so long now. Would you appease her in this?" Her hand held hers again as she rose to her feet. Lyanna complied with an ounce of hesitation.

"Yes, goodmother," Lyanna replied, swallowing the itch in her throat.

"Very good."

 

* * *

 

Lyanna sat on the bed awaiting Rhaegar as she did most every night when sleep could bear to be put aside for a few hours. Her day had gone well after her visit to Rhaella's chambers, though it now seemed more of a distant memory than an occurance that occured no more than half a day before. When Lyanna closed her eyes she could see the darkness of the walls, speckled with reds, blues, greens. And somehow, it chilled her.

The door opened, followed by Rhaegar's entrance. Lyanna felt her heart flutter in her chest and she clutched at it, hoping to still it. She did not want him to hear its wings flapping against her. Rhaegar offered a warm smile, one she had been the recipient of thousands of times, as he came to her side. Lyanna reached for the front of his shirt, urging him closer. He leaned down, brushing his fingertips to her jaw, and pulled her beckoning mouth into a kiss. When he pulled away he murmured, "Good evening, my sweet."

"Good evening," she breathed, reluctantly letting him go. She watched from the bed as he changed into his nightclothes, a routine that had been done before her a countless amount of times. Yet she gazed upon him, admiring his lithe form, and waited in childish anticipation until he made his way to bed, and she into his arms. He held her to him with great tenderness, as if fearing to hurt her or the child inside. Yet Lyanna pressed herself to him as much as her round belly allowed until Rhaegar pulled her into his lap, closing any gap between them. She felt his hand close over her middle and, Lyanna laid her head to his shoulder, sighing contentedly. Some time passed before either one spoke, the two of them holding each other and breathing, thinking. Then, Rhaegar's voice pulled her from the fog.

"Mother told me you two spoke," he said into her hair.

"Yes. We met in her chambers. I've never seen the Maidenvault before." The image of the flowers flashed into her head again.

"I'm sure you didn't expect what you saw, then."

"Not at all. It was..." Unlike anything she'd ever seen. It unsettled her.

"She is quite fond of flowers. As you are," Rhaegar said. But it wasn't like her, she wanted to say. Lyanna liked flowers because they were flowers. Rhaella seemed to like them for reasons of her own. "Nonetheless, it is good that you two see each other."

"When did you see her?"

"Just before I came here."

"Did you seen Jon too?" Her sweet child, bright-eyed and always ecstatic to see his mother and father.

"Yes," he assured her. His hand began to rub circles on her middle, warming her skin beneath the thin chemise. She wondered if the babe felt his caresses too. "He is excited for the babe." Lyanna recalled her son's inquiries earlier and smiled warmly, letting a girlish giggle escape her lips.

"As am I," she admitted in a delighted breath. "I cannot wait any longer." Her eyes opened to look up at her husband, searching for the same enthusiasm in his dark eyes. She found it in his smile instead, and he settled it with a kiss to her forehead.

"Patience. In only a few weeks now..."

"I cannot wait," she said again, biting back her grin. It felt silly to be so blindingly delighted yet she could not help it; she put too many children in the ground to feel anything else but nervous anticipation for the one that lived the longest.

Distracting herself, Lyanna ran her fingers through his silvery hair, playing with it like she did when she touched it for the first time. Even after so long it felt like the first time; it was still unearthly to her, for a mortal to have such brilliant hair. She had asked him once if the Targaryens had jewelers spin their hair many thousands of years ago and Rhaegar laughed and said they didn't. Lyanna still believed they did.

"It has gotten so long, your hair," she observed, noting that it went as far as his chest, nearly to the top of his waist. "It hasn't been this long since..." Since Harrenhal, she realized. Since he pulled off his helmet upon his victory in the tourney and his hair streamed behind him as he rode to her. She could still remember that now as clear as a vision, yet as distant as a dream. He sheared his hair to his shoulders when he delivered her from Winterfell, and again when he went to King's Landing. Now it was long again.

"I ought to cut it," Rhaegar said flatly, frowning at the hair between her fingers.

"Don't!" she protested with sudden ferocity, balling his hair in her fists. He looked at her surprised and Lyanna relaxed, and spoke calmly, "Oh, I do love it so. Don't cut it."

"It grows bothersome," he said, pulling her fingers from his hair. "But if you are fond of it, it will remain unshorn." He kissed her knuckles, which Lyanna pulled from his lips. Mouth meet eager mouth and she felt a hand at her waist and another on her back and he eased her onto the bed beside him. "Rest," he murmured into her mouth, and Lyanna licked her lips for it.

"But Rhaegar..."

"Hush. Rest for the babe."

Lyanna closed her eyes to sleep.

Hours later she would wake with a jolt, as one would from a terrible dream. She found herself gasping, sweating, hurting so keenly she had to bit her lips to keep from crying out. By habit her hand flew to the underside of her belly, where she pressed to search for the pain and found it lower than that. She began to push at it with her hand, trying to making it stop, to end the torrent of aches and stings, but it wouldn't stop, wouldn't cease.

She removed her hand and finally cried out; her fingers, palm, wrist, had come away slick, wet, and the deepest shade of red.  
  
---


	10. Cersei III | Rhaegar III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei learns of Rhaegar's fate; Rhaegar resolves to finish what he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a downer. sorry! it's all set-up for what's to come. which means ned & co. will be making a reappearance soon :)

**Cersei**

Cersei, much like everyone else in King's Landing, was starving for information that lied behind the Queen's locked doors.

They say that she woke up at night shrieking in a pool of her own blood, that when the Maester had reached her it had stained her face and chest in crimson handprints. They say that she suffered in her birthing, sobbing and crying out so all could hear, while Rhaegar paced outside, silent as stone but as jittery as a leaf in a storm. They say it took many excruciating hours for the babe to leave her womb, and only minutes to pronounce it dead- a stillborn. There were conflicting reports on its appearance, and though Cersei could ask Pycelle, she did not care. Within hours, however, it was known that it had been a girl and she nearly killed her mother. It was a pity she didn't.

But Cersei did not care for the Queen's health, physical or otherwise. It was Rhaegar she was concerned for, and it seemed as if no one could spare a detail as to the King's reaction. Did he shout? Did he curse? Or did he remain silent, accepting this scourge in peace? But it seemed no one knew. "Our poor King," they all said instead. "Cursed with a wife who gives him dead children."

Not for long, Cersei wanted to say.

By nightfall, her beloved's condition was still a mystery. Her nerves wracked with worry, she scurried to her father's solar praying he would know. Upon entering, he looked up briefly from his desk, casting a glance of indifference in her direction before he returned to the papers before him.

"I hope you are not here to celebrate," her father said before she may open her mouth. "We did not succeed."

Cersei blinked, confused. "But it is dead," she said more as a question than a statement.

"Yes, the child is dead. But the Queen is not." Her father rose from his desk, pulling himself to his full, menacing height. "She suffered only a painful delivery, but she lives. But perhaps this is better. The King has left."

"He... left?" She heard herself say, though she meant only to think it. Her eyes widened, curious as to its meaning, but sorrowful to learn that her beloved was out of proximity.

"Yes, he left. And it means well for us." Her father spoke so cryptically, so strangely and it sparked a hundred questions within her. Where did he go? Did their plan work? Was this intended to happen?

"But why would he leave?" She asked, settling on one inquiry of many. Her father looked at her sourly, displeased. She thought for a moment that she said something stupid- for father hated stupidity -and she said, "What I mean-"

"When the Maester came out of the birthing chambers, he informed the King that his daughter was dead," He interrupted, answering her question anyways. "And the King, without going in to see his wife who had come so close to death, turned his back on the chambers and he left."

Hearing the words that came so stiffly out of her father's mouth still brought on a twinge of despair for her beautiful King. How heartbroken he must be! Guilt almost mingled with these feelings of sorrow, but Cersei tried to push them back. Yes, it was true that she had Edith mix spoonfuls of moon tea with the Queen's morning tea, slowly killing the child inside, prolonging the attachment that would surely form between mother, child, and father. And for the past few weeks it had been more than a spoonful, hoping to expel the child from its womb once and for all. The idea was perfect. Allow the couple that was still going through reparations bond over the long-awaited child before ripping it away from them and watch them fall apart. It was wicked and cruel to inflict such pain on her sensitive King, but it had to be done. Surely, it would all atone once she was his Queen.

The door opened behind her, bringing with it the noise of rattling chains. Before Cersei could turn to find out who it was, her father alerted her.

"The Grand Maester is here, Cersei," he informed her in a tone implying dismissal. Cersei turned to the aged man and gave a respectful curtsey.

"Ah, Lady Cersei," Pycelle greeted her in his weathered voice. "You are a sight for this old man's weary eyes." He flashed her a toothy smile that Cersei nearly cringed at. He was such an ugly man, with his scraggly beard and thinning grey hair, and he was a slimy man too. It was no secret to her that the aged Grand Maester took whores to bed, and ones he had to pay handsomely to procure their consent. Remembering her manners, Cersei smiled back.

"Thank you ever so much for your services, Grand Maester," she charmed in her most sickly sweet voice, garnering a chortle of approval from the old man. "It has really-"

"Leave the Grand Maester alone, Cersei," her father interrupted coldly. "You ought to sleep. You've a prayer to lead early tomorrow with the ladies of the court. You'll be praying for the Queen's health. Go."

And as Cersei always did, as she was bred to do: she obeyed.

* * *

 

Jaime was already awaiting her in her chambers when she arrived. A smile arised at the sight of her twin, but it faded when she found the sullenness that lined his face. When he turned to look at her it was with accusing eyes that took her aback. She placed her fingers on his forearm, just the faintest touch, while keeping her eyes cast downward. She wanted to ask him about Rhaegar, as she knew he would be more generous with the information than her father had been. But she would not ask outright; it displeased Jaime, and he already appeared upset. Thus, the two stood in silence, basking in each other’s unspoken thoughts.

It was Jaime who spoke first, and spoke of what she had wished to hear.

"Rhaegar has left," he said solemnly as one may announce a death. Cersei looked to him feigning surprise, but remained silent. "His wife... the Queen had just had her stillborn. He took one look at the door, and I thought he would enter. I went to open it for him, but his back had already been turned." Her brother looked at her with a queer expression that she could not recall seeing on his face before.

"He would not go in to see her? She nearly died, did she not?" Cersei asked with a smile, finding amusement in this. "He despises her. He wants to get away from her. That is good for us."

"For us? For you. You and father, more like," Jaime said with a scornful scowl. Her brother's jealousy was a fearsome thing, but so his love for his king. "Rhaegar does not despise her. He needs time away is all."

"Where will he go?"

It seemed an innocent enough question to Cersei, a simple inquiry that others could answer for her, but it struck her twin dumb. He was silent for an unusual amount of time, his mournful eyes to the ground, before he answered.

"Summerhall."

"Isn't that the old Targaryen castle? The one that burned down?" On Rhaegar's nameday, she wanted to add, but wouldn't so as not to rile Jaime. "What would he be doing there?"

He lowered himself into the chair at her vanity, his white armor clanging as he did so. Cersei kneeled before him, putting her hands on his armored knees and leaning in toward him.

"Summerhall is where he used to go before the war," Jaime explained, his eyes focused somewhere past her. "Whenever his sorrow became too great, he would leave to go there. He always took a knight with him- usually Ser Arthur," he paused at the name. "The last time he went was after Aegon's birth. He took three knights then: Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and Oswell. He did not return until Robert Baratheon approached The Trident."

"Who did he take now?" Cersei asked fervently, her heart beating in her head. The information suddenly seemed so crucial, so integral to her plan that Jaime's hesitation only burnt her up further.

"Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold..." Jaime paused again, and Cersei nearly shouted. "And Oswell."

Cersei sprang to her feet, a strange elation coursing through her body.

"If the last he took those men to Summerhall he ran off with that Northern slut, then he is planning something now, isn't he?" Cersei asked her brother with wide eyes. "He hates her then! He is looking for another woman. Shame that she could not die-"

"Cersei, he is not going to find another woman!" Jaime snapped at her, getting to his feet as well.

"Then what is he doing there with three Kingsguard knights- the very same who guarded the wolf-bitch in Dorne? Oh, Jaime, don't you understand?"

He pulled her into a kiss that Cersei did not return. Her lips were stiff under his, which were desperately searching, reminding. When he pulled away, Cersei smiled.

"I'm next," she said, clasping her hands together. "I'm next!" Delight bubbled up inside her, a girlish giggle escaping her lips.

"You are not," her twin snapped angrily. "The man is tired and miserable, that’s all. He loves his Queen." Even as he insisted this it sounded meek and uncertain, as if he could not even convince himself. But why not? Was it so difficult to believe that a man will behave as a man, no matter his position?

"The man did not comfort his Queen when she came out of childbirth,” Cersei reminded her twin. “He did not even look at her. He does not love her." The words thrilled her! Finally, her King sees his Queen for what she is: useless and distasteful.

"And you think he loves you?" Jaime returned, still adamant, still feigning blindness. Cersei smiled softly at him, though her eyes could not focus on his hurt face. They were imagining a different man entirely, somewhere off into distance, waiting for her.

"I will make him love me."

Jaime reached for her as if he meant to kiss her again, but Cersei pushed him away, the heels of her palms ringing the metal on his chest. He gave her one last injured look and turned away, walking out the door as a bleeding lion with his tail between his legs.

Her brother may go to bed unhappy that night, but Cersei knew she would not.

* * *

 

**Rhaegar**

Rhaegar believed in Summerhall as some believed in the gods. As some kneeled before altars, praying for answers, for happiness, Rhaegar would lay beneath the stars and listen to the spirits, hear their advice. He was happiest here; after any bout of sorrow, Rhaegar would come here if he could not find contentment in his own home at King's Landing. This was true for this trip.

Perhaps it was wicked and cruel to leave Lyanna without warning, to neglect to come into her birthing chambers and comfort her. Though she seemed strong, she was such a delicate creature when it came to matters of the heart. He ought to have at least seen her; but seeing her would rustle up feelings he did not wish to feel. For when he looked at the door to her chambers, he saw the swirling abyss of sadness behind it, felt how it clutched at his throat-

Nay, Rhaegar required happiness. Peace, and happiness. And he always found it here at Summerhall.

Rhaegar looked around him; amongst the rubble and ruin he found three figures. One laid his head against a stone, perhaps already asleep. Another, the largest of the three, was on his feet, leaning against a piece of broken foundation. The third and final figure sat with legs out in front of him, leaning back on his arms with face skyward. Rhaegar knew these three men well enough in the context of these darkened ruins to know the first was Oswell, the second Gerold, and the third, Arthur. Rhaegar walked to the third and sat down beside him.

The Dornish knight's dark face was bright in the moonlight, his brown eyes focused on the stars above. Something in his expression, as thoughtful and peaceful as it was, prompted Rhaegar's curiosity.

"What are you thinking of?" Rhaegar asked, taking a seat next to him.

"Elia," the knight responded without hesitation.

Rhaegar felt as if this should have surprised him; his closest confidant had no right to linger on thoughts of his wife. Yet, somehow, Rhaegar felt it only natural. While Arthur had never shown signs of affection to Elia beyond average Dornish kinship, Rhaegar had always known in his heart of hearts that Arthur had felt something fierce for his delicate Queen. But Rhaegar also knew Arthur's loyalty, and that it prevented him from acting upon those feelings.

"You wronged her by leaving her," Arthur whispered in the dark, his eyes still focused skyward. "She had done everything for you. She suffered for you. And you left her in your father's castle."

“You’re right,” Rhaegar agreed readily. “I did wrong her. But I did not hide anything from her, Arthur. I let her know of my plans, of the prophecy, from the start.”

“Does that make it better? That you warned her that you would eventually wrong her?” Arthur’s words wounded, but Rhaegar did not silence him. Summerhall was meant for honesty. “If she had known of your plans before marriage, she would have refused you for a husband.”

“Do not pretend to be ignorant of politics, Arthur. I was prince then. She would not have refused me.”

“She is Dornish. She could have.”

“She was a lady. She couldn’t have.” Rhaegar sighed heavily. True, he did not love Elia, but her memory was a painful one nonetheless. When he closed his eyes he could still she her sad smile, feel her delicate breath on his skin, and smell her musky perfume.

“Will you do wrong by a second Queen?” Arthur asked, and Rhaegar felt his hard eyes on him as he said this.

“Will I?” Rhaegar asked with a slight smile. “Do you remember the prophecy, Arthur?” His friend’s silence answered the question. “I live for the prophecy. It is my duty to fulfill it. Since I was a child I have _made_ it my duty to fulfill it. All my follies have been for it. I wronged Elia for it. She gave me two children when I required three. Lyanna, she…”

Reflecting on it now, Rhaegar’s marriage to Lyanna was one of convenience, just as with any marriage among highborn men and women. When Rhaegar crowned her at Harrenhal, it was to begin an alliance. The letters he sent her over the course of a year had been to cement that alliance- that if, and only if, he required her, she would be accepting to him. When he was told that Elia may never have a child again, he turned to Lyanna, and found that she was deeply in love with him, and deeply unhappy that she could not be with him. Rhaegar found no harm in taking her then; if she loved him and wanted to be with him, then he was fulfilling a dream of hers, was he not? He had done her a service by spiriting her away from the brute of a Baratheon. And she did him a service by giving him a third child.

But of course, by then, Jon was his only child. His other two had turned to ashes.

“She loves you,” Arthur said in a voice so uncharacteristically soft for a man of his intensity. “I do not claim to be fond of the Queen, but there is no doubt that she loves you.”

“And I love her,” Rhaegar said. “But that is not enough.”

“It is enough,” Arthur retorted sharply. When Rhaegar turned to see his face, he found it caught between softness and anger, respect and disdain. “Had Elia been my wife I would have been content with any number of children she gave me.” Rhaegar could not feign surprise at his boldness. For in truth, if the world had been perfect, Arthur would have belonged with Elia. But his honor and his white armor kept him from that.

“It is different for you,” Rhaegar said with a hint of sorrow. “You do not have a weight of a prophecy of your shoulders.”

“What are you saying?” Arthur asked with a hesitation that did not go unnoticed by Rhaegar.

“There must be three heads of the dragon,” Rhaegar replied. “That is what I am saying.”

The two men looked toward the starry sky, both searching for answers in this tragic place. The silence between them returned, and the air remained thick with remorse.

“I must know,” Arthur began to speak after some time, his voice hoarse as if from disuse, or from unspeakable sadness. “Why is the prophecy so important to you?”

“A fair question,” Rhaegar replied. “It is because I wish to be remembered.”

“Remembered as what?” Arthur asked, still not understanding. Why would he? He did not carry the same burdens Rhaegar did.

“As a great king," Rhaegar answered. "A great man. The father of a line of great heroes.”

“And that is worth everything to you?” he asked, as if hoping to deter him one last time.

“Everything.”

Prophecy and legacy. By fulfilling the former, he achieves the latter. By doing so he would be Aegon the Conqueror come again: a hero for the ages, a man who saw his potential and achieved it driven only by his own determination. Rhaegar had already fought a war to maintain his opportunity for glory, and now he would fight another to obtain it. But this would not be a war of gore and death. It would be a war where the only casualties are emotional ones, where there are few needed sacrifices and no unnecessary ones. It would be controlled, deliberate, supervised. It may be short-lived, or it may last a lifetime.

“I’m sorry, Lya,” he heard himself whisper to the North star shining so brightly above him. Rhaegar did not know what he apologized for. Was it for what had already happened, or what was soon to occur? He only knew that no number of apologies could heal the wound, that no number of kisses could thaw the cold, that all his honeyed words would be useless in this matter.

It was his fault and Rhaegar accepted that. It would all atone one day.

* * *

 

He looked into her sparkling eyes after kissing her knuckles, lingering longer than was appropriate for a man of his position. It did not matter. It thrilled her, and that was what was important.

“Could you honor me with a walk through the gardens, my lady?” he asked her, flashing her a soft smile that mirrored her own.

“Of course, my lord,” she trilled, and Rhaegar could hear her voice tremble as she spoke.

_Such a sweet girl,_ he mused, eyes focused on her generous pink mouth. That was all Rhaegar could think of when he was around her: how sweet, how soft, how very much like a Queen. Perhaps it was wrong to take pleasure in what was meant to be a trying task, but he could not help it. Much of what was in this girl was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

“I wrote a song while I was away,” he said to her, garnering her full attention. “Would you listen to it tonight, at dinner?”

“Oh, yes, my lord, I cannot wait,” she said with an excited nod. “But I must ask: are you a man of your word, as they say?” She gave an elfish smile that, coupled with the glimmer in her eye, made her seemed charmingly mischievous.

“Of course, my lady,” he responded.

“And you take your vows seriously?”

“Very seriously,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. She giggled at this.

“Then promise that you shall play me the song tonight- promise or I won’t show up to dinner.” A petulant purse of her lips, an arch of a brow- all orchestrated to for to play into his hands. He would, this one time.

“I promise, my lady. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

“Very well, then. I shall count the seconds ’til dinner.” Then she looped her arm in his, and they continued their walk.

All was going well, as he predicted it would. But this was the simple part. The difficultly lied in another matter, one that was wilder and closer to his heart. The woman now on his arm may be sweet and docile, but Lyanna was not. He had not gone to see her since his arrival; perhaps it was delaying the inevitable, but it was a kindness as well, to the both of them, that they did not suffer now. Later, he would see her. Later, he would deal with her.

For now it was only to be Cersei Lannister’s soft speech and delicate touches.


	11. Lyanna IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And that taught me you can’t have anything, you can’t have anything at all. Because desire just cheats you. It’s like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it -but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you’ve got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone. "  
> — F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Beautiful and Damned_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!

Why did he leave? Why didn't he say something, anything? What had she done?

She tried, and perhaps that was her folly.

Lyanna did not know how long she had been in her chambers. It no longer mattered; time did not pass normally when Rhaegar was not here. An hour may pass in a second, and a second may pass in a year. It was all wrong, convoluted, horrifying.

She kept her shades closed so that she could not measure time by the sun. She remained in the same nightgown, a creamy silk one, and did not change out of it. Bathing was unimportant; keeping her hair tame was a tiring task. She did not eat but for every few days, when hunger left a hollow pain in her middle. She could not sleep either, in fear of... she didn't know. Lyanna could only lie in bed and wait, wait for something, someone to come and save her. For even through the closed doors she heard their whispers: wolf-bitch, barren slut, Northern whore. Good for nothing but to spread her legs for the King, and then give him babes that die before they may open their eyes. But was she truly at fault for it? Still, somewhere in her dark heart, she knew she could. The air here was poisonous, is all. She had to get away.

When they brought her Jon one day, perhaps hoping to raise her spirits, she found she could muster no more but to raise her head and stare at him. When he crawled over her and pressed a sticky hand to her face, Lyanna sobbed, her tears mingling with shouts of pain, and a single name: Rhaegar!

Where was he? Where did he go? When could he come back?

Handmaidens would shuffle in daily, push back the hair from her eyes and urge her to eat. One day one had walked in and wished her a happy nameday. Every once in a while a letter was between their hands. "From your brother Lord Eddard," they would always say. Lyanna did not read them. She wanted to read Rhaegar's words, not Ned's. She wanted his comfort more than anything.

Then one day a handmaiden came in with news: he was back. Lyanna had thought she would roused out of her restless slumber then, that she would shoot up like a flower and bloom again, but she felt nothing. That empty cavern grew larger with each night that he did not come to see her. He was two weeks back by then, absent a moon and a half from her life, and yet she did not see his face.

The knife in her belly began to twist.

Then one morning, her strength came from nowhere. She got out of bed and wobbled on her feet like a newborn foal before taking careful steps to the wardrobe. She was picking out a dress when a handmaiden rushed in, surprised to her emergence.

"Oh, my lady, thank-"

"Prepare a bath for me, please," Lyanna told her, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Within half an hour she was bathed and dressed. She took a moment to peer into the looking glass; there she found a woman, gaunt and pale, with bloodless lips and puffy eyes. Lyanna had never been a vain person, but looking at herself now, she felt a pit of disgust rile up in her stomach. _I've let myself fall,_ she realized before turning away from the harsh face in the mirror. It would not happen again.

When she stepped outside of her chambers, she was nearly taken aback by the man already there. It was Ser Jaime, guarding her door as he always had, his eyes straight ahead. On her appearance, he dropped into a low bow, one she did not recall receiving in the past.

"Ser Jaime," she whispered, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"My lady," the knight returned. As she took each step, he mirrored them, never staying too far behind her.

After a few minutes, Lyanna realized that she did not know where she was headed. She knew only that she had to leave that suffocating room. Then her stomach growled, and none too quietly. Placing a hand over her flat middle, Lyanna decided on food. As the neared the main hall, Lyanna heard noise: it was the sound of people laughing, talking, drinking. Her first thought was to turn and run from it all. Just before the doors, she paused. When Ser Jaime reached for the doorknob, she shook her head. She was not ready yet.

Then suddenly, there was a hush behind the doors. All fell silent, and remained silent, until the sound of music drifted from the room. It was a sound she knew well, as it was the very sound that made her cry six years ago, and one she would hear played for her and only for her for years after.

_Perhaps he is waiting for me,_ she realized with a thrill. Then she opened the doors and entered to look upon her husband playing his silver harp and singing. But his eyes were not somewhere far off, searching for her. Nay, his eyes were looking before him, focused on someone, and smiling. She took steps forward as her eyes followed his, trying to locate who stole his affections from her. And then she found her: Cersei Lannister, bright-eyed and blushing red, looking back at the King as if he were a god on land.

Lyanna could not recall how things happened so quickly afterward; she felt first the sorrow, of which she had none left, and then the mighty rage. Heat had bubbled up to her head, her body trembling with hardly contained anger, and then she burst, as sudden as a storm. She knew she grabbed a goblet of wine from a table, that by then the music had ceased and everyone was looking at her, staring. She recalled that everyone gasped as she took the goblet in her hand and emptied it on Cersei Lannister's golden head.

The rest was a wild blur. She remembered the red wine staining Cersei's yellow dress, a color deeper than blood. She recalled hands on her waist, wrenching her away from the scene, though she could not say whose hands those were. But after all the commotion, the movements, the rumble of excited whispers, Lyanna found herself in her bedchambers again, all alone.

The silence returned after her head ceased spinning. A hand clutched at her throat; it burned something fierce, and she realized she must have shouted and screamed at Cersei, thought she not tell what she said. It had all happened at once and with such velocity it seemed as if it had never happened. She sunk to her knees and wrapped her arms around herself.

The door opened. A tall, lithe figure was silhouetted in the doorway; without looking at his face she knew it was Rhaegar, her Rhaegar, her lying, cheating Rhaegar. He closed the door behind him and went to the window, pulling open the shades to let light pour in. Lyanna kept her head down, away from the sun, and stared at the ground in silence. She heard Rhaegar's exasperated sigh before she saw him; he stepped out in front of her and Lyanna did not look up at him.

"You shall deliver an apology to Lady Cersei," he said in a steely, detached voice.

That had been enough.

"An apology?" she scoffed, turning her face to her husband's. "You are asking me to apologize to the woman you are making love to?"

"I am not making love to her," he returned coldly.

"But you will soon, won't you? You have sung a song for her-" she stopped herself to allow the weight of the situation to push down on her. Then she rose to her feet, balled her fists and let loose any restraint, the precious little that she had. "You sang for her!" She accused in a shout. "As you did for me six years ago, you have sung to her! Those songs had always been mine, written for me, and you have gone and done one for her! Is that what you do with women that you want to bed? Sing for them?"

"Do not speak foolishly, Lyanna-"

"Do not tell me how to speak!" she replied shrilly, her voice piercing her own ears. Rhaegar fell silent at this, pursing his lips and permitting her to talk. Lyanna took a shaky breath and began again in a tone that was calmer than before, but still trembled. "I may have forgiven your neglecting to see me after the birth. I may have forgiven your neglecting to see me when you returned. I had made so many excuses for you; I said you were tired, upset, and that upon your return you would be busy. But it appears you have been flirting with Cersei Lannister instead." She spat the name as if it were a bad taste she wished to expel.

Yet Rhaegar did not react to her. He only looked at her with hard purple eyes, keeping his reasons to himself. They did not look like Rhaegar's eyes, she realized. Rhaegar only ever looked at her with tenderness and sometimes exasperation. Lyanna's hands trembled as she reached out to him, touching the ends of his hair.

"You've cut it," she whispered, seeing now that the tresses she so loved hardly brushed his shoulders. In return, Rhaegar held her chin, brushing it softly with his thumb.

"You’ve become thinner. And paler," he murmured. Tears welled up in Lyanna's eyes at this unwanted tenderness. She wanted to hate him, to tear him apart with her teeth and force him out of her life. Yet, she could not. _Do not cry for him,_ a voice urged her in her head. It was a voice could not heed; she saved her tears for him, for there was no one she could cry to but him- and crying alone was simply too painful. Despite her best efforts, Lyanna crumpled. She beat her fists against his chest once before falling into it, letting loose sobs that she had previously refused to unleash. His hand went to her head, long, familiar fingers threading through her hair.

“You bastard!” she exclaimed, tears still falling, falling. “You’ve no idea what pain I’ve been in. You’ve no clue. You left me for a burnt castle and then you left me for a woman. You bastard, you bastard!” Lyanna felt the fire within her grow, slowly drying up her tears. “Did you hear me at all? As I bled and pushed a child that was already dead, I screamed your name. I begged you to come in and hold my hand. I nearly died Rhaegar, and all I wanted was you!”

“I’m sorry,” she heard him say, but it did not quell her anger.

“Sorry? What for?” she asked him, pulling herself from his chest. Her bleary eyes met his clear ones and he dug her nails into her palm. “What is done is done. Now you must fix it."

"How shall I do that?" He asks with questioning eyes. They were so expressive, his eyes.

"Never leave my side again," she begged, reaching out to clutch his shirt. "Do not leave me."

"I will not," he says.

"Good," Lyanna mumbles. "Let us put Cersei Lannister behind us, then. You will not see her again."

She expected him to agree, to press her to his chest in a fit of passion for her, or to at the very least nod. He did none of this; he only stared at her in chilling silence.

"Surely..." Lyanna begins with a twitch of her lips. "Surely you do not... you do not truly aim to..." She could not finish before despair swallowed her up again. "I'm your wife," she croaks, putting a hand to her breast. Her chest felt so tight, as if it were squeezing the air out of her. "You cannot..."

"Lyanna, please understand," he says to her softly, holding her limp hand. "I do not do this out of love. It is duty that drives me; I require a true Queen and heirs. Cersei can give that to me."

"And I cannot? Have I not given that to you already? That, and so much more?" It must be a dream. To hear Rhaegar, her Rhaegar to speak of another woman- nay, it could not be. It was wrong. It was meaningless. "I have given you everything!" she shouted, wrenching her hand from his and pinning him with an accusing stare. "I gave you my maiden's gift. I gave you my hand in marriage. I gave you all my love, all my patience. I put my life in your hands and prayed you would not misuse it. I gave you my body and my heart. I gave you a son, Rhaegar- have you forgotten your son? Have you seen your heir at all since you returned?" Little Jon whom she bled for, prayed for. Their son. "Do you know how I brought him into the world? There in that lonely tower after you had left me- no one held my hand, Rhaegar. I shouted for you, but you were not there. I felt myself slip away, but I was happy. Happy! Because I would have died giving you what you wanted."

It was a difficult memory. She recalled clutching at the sheets, fumbling for something to grip as an aged maester sighed and told her to push. But there was relief: a coldness that was fiercer than the North's, and her mother's voice in her ear. Both had held her until she was thrust back into the land of the living, where Jon's cries filled the air and her blood kept flowing.

"I did not force you into this," Rhaegar tells her. "I gave you your choice."

"Perhaps at first," she rasps. "In the godswood you gave me a choice. In the tower, you gave me none. When Brandon... and father, when they..." Her throat began to burn and for a moment she thought she may not breathe. Her chest ached at their memory, of their harrowing ends. "When they perished I asked if I may return home to my surviving brothers. You told me no."

He tries to deny it. "It would have made matters worse for all of you-"

"He was my big brother!" She shouts, baring her teeth. "I loved him more than I loved anyone, and he loved me just the same. He was my protector, Rhaegar- he died for me!" Tears were streaming down her face, much similar to the ones she shed years ago. The wound had been reopened.

Memories of Brandon rushed to her. That easy smile, the thunderous laugh, and his constant teasing coupled with wild rage when she pushed him too far. He swore to protect her, forever and always, that he would ride down to Storm's End and kill Robert himself if he ever hurt her or shamed her. He was her dear elder brother and she loved him.

"And father- father, he..." she chokes out through sobs, but unable to finish. Oh, how her father would scold her when he caught her doing something she shouldn't! Whether it be playing at swords using sticks or shirking her studies to go riding, he seemed always ready to reprimand. But her father also had an immeasurable softness for her; she was his only daughter, after all, and there was much that he allowed her do. If he could see her now, as shameful as she was, only just now realizing her folly, he would surely be disappointed.

Rhaegar's hands grasp her shoulders, shaking them as she wailed. She saw his lips move, but she heard no sound. All she could hear were her own sobs and her pleading "Forgive me father, forgive me..."

It was all too much.

After her tears subsided, she found herself on her knees again, crumpled to the floor. Rhaegar stood at the window, his face turned from her. For a moment she thought to reach out to him, to ask him to come and hold her and wash all her sorrows away. But the urge passed as soon as it came. She pinned him with hard eyes that were no longer fit for crying.

"You will marry her then?" Lyanna asks him in a hoarse voice. She did not need to say whom.

"I will," he responds.

"Then I ask that you release me from our bonds of marriage." The words came out strong, but behind them her heart faltered. Her love for him still pushed against her despite herself.

He turns to her with furrowed brows, his lips curled in displeasure. "What makes you think I shall do that?"

"You cannot have two wives at once."

"The men of my line have had more."

“But not the men of my line,” she returns. “I will not accept it.”

“You will accept it.”

“Please, Rhaegar,” she murmurs, hoping to reach him through softness. “Do not have me shame my family a second time.”

“When Elia was alive you had no qualms about marrying me,” he reminded her.

“You swore to me she would only be your wife in name. You told me you would not go to her bed nor would you give her any attentions beyond what a brother might give a sister.” Even then, she did not like it. But she was younger then, more in love, and blind. “You have plans to bed Cersei. That is not brotherly.”

“I need heirs,” he says, as if it were a solid argument. He walks to hers, kneels down to meet her eye. Lyanna’s heart swoons as he holds her hand, presses it to his lips. “I do not bed her out of affection, Lyanna. I do not love her.”

“You did not love me at the start,” she says with a sad smile. “But you grew to love me, did you not? How will this be any different?”

“It is because I love you still. I will not release you from our union. You are mine as I am yours.” He echoes their vows sworn twice, once under her heart tree enveloped by the cover of the night, and once in a Great Sept of Baelor, drenched in light. It was not enough to sway her.

“No.” Lyanna shook her head. “You will be hers too.”

“It shall be like Aegon and his wives,” he says in a voice Lyanna recognizes to be the one he used for all his beautiful stories and wonderful promises. “You shall be my Rhaenys, and she my Viseyna.”

“You are no Aegon,” she growls, pulling her hand from his grasp. “And I shall not be your Rhaenys.”

“And yet you will. I will not let you go.” He holds her face and kisses her mouth, crushing his lips against hers in an effort to make her react. And he nearly did; her hands ghosted near his arm, wanting to pull him in, but she stops herself and wrenches herself out of his grasp instead.

“You needn’t do any of this,” she urges him savagely. “You needn’t marry her. You needn’t lose me. Let us go to Dorne again, to our tower, and be lovers again. I swear to you, Rhaegar, I can give you another child. King’s Landing has hurt us both. Please, Rhaegar, forget her. Forget this place. Let us go, if only for a little while.”

Rhaegar shakes his head. “We will not.”

“Then you have lost me forever,” she says, and her heart jumps into her throat. She rises to her feet and turns her back to him. She cannot look at him now; not those dark purple eyes and not those chiseled lips. He was nothing to her. She wanted him to be nothing to her. “Leave me,” she commands in a broken voice.

She hears him rise and walk to the door. There he pauses, a stiff silence between them.

“I will come to your chambers tomorrow and take you to Lady Cersei. You will apologize for your actions,” he says flatly. “The two of you are to be sisters. I will not have any ill-will between the two of you.”

He leaves, and Lyanna hates him for it.

 

* * *

 

As promised, Rhaegar meets her outside her chambers to escort her.

She emerges from her room without granting him a sideways glance, though she feels his eyes on her. She is dressed in the simplest design: she wears a straight grey dress paired with flat shoes, with her long brown curls let loose and without a crown. On her shoulders she wears a black cloak with a grey direwolf on the back. She feels Rhaegar’s disapproval, but pays it no mind. They do not speak or exchange glances on the way to his solar. When he opens the door it is not to let her through, but to let himself in first.

Cersei stands by a window, her golden hair shimmering in the sun. She turns to them upon their entry, smiling for them. “Your grace,” she says with a curtsey, though it is unsure as to whom. Lyanna sets her jaw at the sight of her and glares.

“My lady,” Rhaegar says to her. “My Queen wishes to deliver a sincere apology for the events of the day before.”

No she doesn’t, Lyanna wants to say.

Cersei does not feign humbleness. She turns to the Queen with an expectant smile that Lyanna knew to be hiding a smirk. For her smugness, Lyanna remains silent.

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar hissed between gritted teeth. Bad wolf, he seemed to be saying. Submit.

“I find it quite sad that we cannot be friends,” the insufferable lioness purrs as she closes the gap between them. Lyanna keeps her chin high and looks at her through narrowed eyes. “We are to be sisters, you know.”

“Don’t you ever call me sister,” Lyanna returns, her eyes burning wild. “You are no relation of mine and you never will be.”

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar warns again, gripping her elbow to chastise her, but she does not care.

“It’s alright, my love,” Cersei says in an affectionate tone that nearly sent Lyanna diving for her throat. “She is still recovering. Her mind is not sound.”

“My mind is sound enough to understand that you have wanted this from the start,” Lyanna starts with a growl, yanking her arm away from Rhaegar to step closer to Cersei. “But your whispers and lies are not what have brought you here. Nay, it is mine own husband’s feeble heart-”

“Lyanna, that is enough!” Rhaegar bellows, his steely voice echoing throughout the room. “Why must you be so difficult-“

“Because it is my nature!” she shouts, whirling around to meet his eye. “I do not take injustices lightly. You ought to know a little about that.” His eyes flash with recognition, and then rage again, as if he had a right to be upset. Lyanna puts the heel of her palm to her temple and shuts her eyes tight, hoping to will them all away.

“Lady Cersei,” she hears Rhaegar whisper. “My deepest apologies, my lady. If you would leave us for a moment, I shall see to you later.” There are amorous noises, the sound of a door opening, then closing, and silence.

“You are behaving childishly,” Rhaegar tells her with disdain. “You are no older than you were when I found you dressed in ill-fitting armor and climbing a tree.” He used to mention that incident with a soft chuckle, and amused twinkle in his eye. Lyanna opens her eyes to look to him, her lover, her husband, berating her.

“I do not care anymore,” Lyanna says with a broken voice. “You may go search for a mature Queen in the Lannister woman. I will go back to my insufferable, childish self.” Her legs shake beneath her. The trembling spreads up body to her fingertips and Lyanna fits she must sit. There is suddenly an ache throughout her body and her mind, one she had felt many times before. “I want to go home,” she whispers, wrapping her arms about her middle and leaning forward in her seat.

“I’ll take you to your chambers,” Rhaegar says, moving to her.

“No, not here. I hate this damnable place. I want to return home, to Winterfell.” It has been years, she realized. The last she went was before the war, before she ran, before she ruined everything. Now, suddenly, the summer snows were calling her, and she wanted to follow. “Do not make me stay for this wedding. I want to go home.”

“You shall stay for the wedding,” Rhaegar says coldly. “I will not have the kingdom note your absence.”

“That is cruel,” she says in a hiss. “You’ll have me stay in this castle while you fuck that woman in another room?”

“Do not speak so harshly,” he warns with a grimace. “You will not be leaving before the wedding.”

“But I may leave?” her heart flutters at the prospect and an unbidden smile rises to her lips. “I may go home?”

After notable hesitation, he caves. “You may.”

She thought she might kiss him for those words. But her battle was not over yet.

“I ask for more,” she said. “Will you hear it?”

“I will.” He pulls up a chair before her and sits, fixing his eyes on her.

“I ask for a year’s leave. I do not want to get in the way of you and your new wife.”

“A year?” he furrowed his brows, not in agreement. “That is too long.”

“I pray she gives you a child within this time, and that I do not have to bear seeing you treat her with the same tenderness you would treat me.” She sees his lips twitch in argument, but it stills. “I cannot do it. I cannot watch you two love each other, or pretend to love each other, in the beginning. I will not tolerate a cold bed knowing that you are warming hers.”

“Very well,” Rhaegar relents after some hesitation. “You have a year. And then you return.”

Lyanna nods. “I have one last request.”

“What is it, pray tell?” he asks with an exasperated sigh.

“I bring Jon with me.”

He is most startled at this. His eyes widen and he grips the edge of his seat a little harder.

“You will not take my son,” he says in a hard, cold voice, and Lyanna knows it has touched him.

“He is my son too,” she reminds him just as fiercely. “And I have given him more of my pain and my time than you have, and I shall not be without him.”

“You will not take Jon. He stays here, where he belongs.”

“If I cannot take him with me then I swear by the Old Gods and The New I will kill myself,” she threatens, a dangerous flash in her eyes. “I know the Red Keep well enough to know which towers are the tallest.” Rhaegar’s mouth forms a tight line, refusing to say anything. “Jon is all I have left. I shall travel North with him or I will die.”

“You ask too much.”

“I ask only that I bring my heart and soul with me. I shall not leave him behind while his father makes love to another woman.”

“Then you may take Jon with you,” Rhaegar allows through gritted teeth. “But I reserve the right to send for him before your year is through.”

“You have that right.”

“Very well, then.”

“Very well.”

And just like that, they closed more as negotiators of a truce and less as husband and wife.

 

* * *

 

He slips into her chambers a day before her departure. Lyanna had already cried tears of agony the night before, the wedding night, as she held Jon to her chest, as she wondered if he whispered Cersei’s name, or her own.

He disrobes before slipping between the sheets and reaching for her. Lyanna does not resist; she allows him to undress her, to move the shift off her body and press his hands to her bare skin in a most familiar way. He whispers her name as he eases her onto her back. Lyanna’s legs hold his hips to hers as the familiar dance was done again. Her nails drag down his back, her teeth dig into his shoulder as he breathes in her ear, murmuring that he loves her and only her. She nearly believes him.

For a moment it feels like nothing had changed, that they were making love in a round tower while the cool night air let in through their window, chilling her bones and encouraging them to hold each other closer. But this was not Dorne, and this was not their tower. This was a prison.

After the conclusion, he holds her in his arms and kisses her temple over and over and over. His fingers play with her hair, separating it from her sticky back, twining and twisting as if he hoped to lose his hand in it. Lyanna lets him touch her, lets him kiss her, and lets herself imagine it were all different.

Even when harsh reality returned, nothing would matter. She was finally going home.


	12. Catelyn I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn finally meets the fabled she-wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone has had a nice holiday break so far! enjoy!

Catelyn had learned early on in her marriage not to speak ill of Lyanna Stark.

Or rather, Lyanna Targaryen, though Catelyn never could quite see her as one of those Valyrian exotics. But she also couldn't see how a girl like her could be a Stark, the only daughter of the most noble and honorable house in Westeros. Nothing Lyanna had done was honorable.

It had been no more than half a year after the war, a point at which Catelyn had only just begun to feel truly comfortable with her lord husband. That was not to say he was unkind; on the contrary, he was warm and thoughtful, treating her like the most delicate flower, even in bed. But Ned, who was only 'my lord' then, had many sorrows, which he hid well, but not well enough. Catelyn herself had many sorrows too, and on a whim, she wished to express one.

They had been lying in bed together; Catelyn traced circles on his chest and sighed over and over, hoping to lure him into inquiring himself. And he did.

"What is on your mind, my lady?" he had asked in a voice sweet and true.

"I have been thinking about your sister the queen," she said, getting to the point. "And wondering how someone could be so selfish. How can you have forgiven her for all the death she had brought? For your father, your brother, for Robert?"

His anger had been of the worst sort. It began not with an explosion but a spark that grew into a flame. He sat up quickly in bed, forcing her off him. "Do not speak of my sister in such a manner," he warned her in a voice near quivering with rage. The feral look in his eyes frightened her then; she trembled like a leaf under that harsh stare. "She is my blood, one of the few who carry it in this world, and I will not hear such vile words spoken against her. Have I made myself clear?" He pinned her with a gaze that seemed more animal than human, one that forced a meek nod from her. After he received that consent, he had put on his clothes and left her chambers. The next morning he spoke with his usual tenderness, as if nothing had happened between them. It was then that Catelyn learned the depth of his love for his sister.

Catelyn knew he was not the only Stark to harbor such intense feelings. Brandon had been similar, though she did not know it at first. Catelyn often found herself thinking of Brandon in the early years of her marriage, particularly when Ned was away at war. Brandon had been the most handsome man she had ever seen, more handsome than Robert Baratheon, whom she had met, and likely Rhaegar Targaryen, whom she had never seen. He had thick dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck, a strong square jaw, and eyes of the palest grey that always seemed to sparkle. She would think of his easy smile, of his strong build, of how people flocked to him because he was so easy to love. And he truly was; Catelyn did not know what she felt for Brandon Stark, but it was strong and true.

In their few meetings together, Catelyn did not suspect that he held a close relationship with any of his siblings. When he spoke, it was always of himself, and gods knew he could talk. He would go on for ages, telling stories so outrageous they had to be false, but from his expressive mouth it was fascinating. He would pause every now and again to meet her eye and smile; for those brief moments it felt like he loved her, and it made her knees weak. But Catelyn had been wrong. When she learned of how he rode to the Red Keep demanding Rhaegar's death, prepared to deliver it himself, Catelyn knew. When it was said that he shouted his sister's name in the Black Cells ’til his voice was sore, Catelyn knew. When he strangled himself trying to save his burning father, Catelyn knew his last thoughts were not of her, but of his sister.

Catelyn knew whom he had loved most in the end.

For the longest time, she cursed Lyanna. Even when it was believed to be a kidnapping and rape, Catelyn hated her for taking away her beloved. _How could she get herself kidnapped?_ she asked herself in bitterness. Worse still were her comments on her virtue. _How could she let herself be raped? Now what virtue does she have? What man will marry her?_ They were cruel and impulsive thoughts that faded in time; the distaste still remained, however.

Catelyn herself had never met her. She did not know quite what to imagine, though she had been told she looked just like Brandon. But that was not an image she wished to conjure up anymore. Thus, whenever her name was mentioned, Catelyn imagined a girl with dark hair but no face. And she had been fine with that.

Now, that would change for she was coming North. Catelyn could not say that she was wholly content with this. In truth, she would prefer that she never met this queen and, more importantly, that her children wouldn't either. For no matter how fondly Ned spoke of her, Catelyn knew a woman's heart, and she knew Lyanna's was sullied. Any girl who would be so stupid as to throw everything away just to be in a man's arms, a man whom she fancied she loved and that he loved her- the thought was unspeakable. Honor and virtue were important to Catelyn. For highborn women, it was all they had. And Lyanna had tossed both aside and started a war with its ashes.

Ned had asked her, gods bless him, if she would object to Lyanna's coming into her home. He held her hands and asked so sweetly that Catelyn could not deny him his wish. She had seen how he fretted over each letter sent but unanswered, how it troubled him that the king had taken a second wife. Catelyn, however, could not muster up the sympathy. To her, it seemed as if the gods had finally punished her for her folly.

They all stood at the entrance to the keep, each lined up in waiting for the queen. Robb stood besides her, holding her hand, and Sansa was sitting up in her arms, looking around her with an elegant curiosity, her auburn hair swishing prettily each time she turned her head. Ned was on her side as well, his face still as stone. She could not read his eyes now, but she certainly could when the procession came in sight, as a light had jumped into the dark grey orbs.

A row of knights led the front, all in black and red armor save for one, who wore armor as white as freshly fallen snow- Kingsguard armor. Behind them came a woman riding astride a chestnut mare; she had long dark curls that fell unpinned around a heart shaped face so pale that she could see the pink in the apples of her cheeks. Had it not been for the crown atop her head one might have confused her for a peasant, as she wore a plain frock too. A lovely peasant, but rabble nonetheless. The crowed around her bowed, and Catelyn looked to her side to see Ned already kneeling. Catelyn followed suit the best she could with a babe in her arms, urging Robb to do the same.

"Dearest brother, why do you bow for me?" A husky voice asks in clarity. "Rise, all of you. I would look upon your face, Ned." Catelyn rose in time to see the queen's red lips curled into a smile as she hopped off her horse and came running into Ned's arms. All Catelyn could think of was the impropriety for a lady to be riding a horse so.

"Oh Ned," she heard her gasp beside her. "I've missed you terribly." That was all she could hear before sobs turned her words incoherent. They embraced for some time before Ned let her on her feet again, letting her wipe her tear stained cheeks. "Sweet Ned," she says between sniffles. "If you could allow my men respite for the evening, that would be wonderful. They have orders to turn back to King's Landing after a single night."

"It is a small price to pay to see your face in Winterfell again, sweet sister."

"Oh, thank you," she breathed, and Catelyn realized that there was a compelling property to her voice. Though it was not exceedingly feminine, it seemed airy, ethereal. "I hate it, truly. Rhaegar has directed an army to send me here and we've wasted much time on the road for it. He wishes to lessen my stay, I just know it." Catelyn arched a brow at the sudden venom in her voice. Though she had no illusions regarding the queen's anger toward the king — she was running away from him, after all — she did not expect it to run so deep.

The queen's waterlogged eyes rest on her, and Catelyn manages a curtsey, putting on a tight smile for her. "You honor me with your presence, your grace."

"By the gods, you are more beautiful than they say," Lyanna croons with a warm smile, walking over to her. "Please, Lady Catelyn, I urge you to call me by name. We are sisters, and, if I may speak true, you are the only sister I wish to have." Lyanna puts her hands on Catelyn's arms, leaning in to press a kiss to each cheek. Her eyes then drift to Sansa in her arms. "And this must be the beautiful Sansa. How are you dearest?" She smiles for her daughter, who only blinks at the hand she reaches out to stroke her cheek. Catelyn nearly winces at the touch, childishly fearing that her tarnished honor would contaminate her daughter. "Such lovely hair. I see little Robb is blessed with it too." Catelyn watches as Lyanna kneels down to shake Robb’s hand. "Hullo, Robb. I'm your aunt Lya."

"Lya," Robb repeats with caution before smiling bright for her.

"I've a son who is just your age, Robb. Would you like to meet him?"

"What's his name?"

"Jon."

"I want to see!"

Lyanna laughs, but Catelyn hears no mirth in it, empty even. But she motions to someone behind her, a woman, who brings her son to her. He is the same height as her Robb, but not nearly alike. He is all his mother, all Stark. But he also appears to carry himself like one too, quietly reaching out a hand to Robb, who accepts it.

"You two have fun and be good now," Lyanna says before planting a kiss on her son's head and rising to her feet. She looks to Catelyn again, and she stiffens. "It is lovely to finally meet you, Catelyn," she says with a sad smile.

Just then, the man in the Kingsguard armor walks up behind her. He has taken his helmet off, allowing Catelyn to look upon his face. He is an exceedingly handsome man, with features that nearly seemed perfect. Atop his head were the loveliest blond curls that caught the sun, glimmering at every angle. Catelyn stood in quiet awe of him. Without introduction she knew him to be Jaime Lannister, the youngest member of the Kingsguard. He whispers something into the queen's ear, and she grimaces.

"Let me alone, Ser Jaime. I'll not raise a pen for that monster," she hisses in a voice that is none too quiet. Then she turns to Ned, solemn as a statue. "Would you take me to them, Ned?" she asks, and he nods, offering his arm. She takes it, and the two walk off in the direction of the crypts.

 _At least she has the sense to pay her respects,_ Catelyn notes bitterly. _Gods know it won’t help her now._

* * *

 

That night a feast is held for the queen and her procession, but the queen does not arrive.

Catelyn mingles with the few women who came along while keeping a watchful eye on Robb, who had been at Jon's side since his arrival. Sansa had already been put to bed, but Catelyn regretted she could not see the Great Hall now. She knew she'd be mesmerized, watching everyone's movements in silent awe.

It was a noisy evening, as the men were rowdy, but she knew Ned had it all under control. His own guards were posted around the hall to keep the peace, however loud it was. They were surely savoring the free food and accommodations, both of which her lord husband had been more than generous with.

"Tell me, Lady Catelyn, do you like it in the North?" One of the three ladies, whom she understood were the queen's handmaidens, asked. She too would be returning tomorrow.

"It is very much unlike the South, but it has its charm," Catelyn informs her with a smile.

"But it is so cold! Colder than it ought to be in spring, don't you think?"

"Stay here long enough and it'll feel as lovely as a sea breeze." Though the girls giggled, it was true. The ice had grown on her, as everything else in this part of the world did. In the North you adapted or you perished.

"The queen is so fond of it, you know. She always has us dress her in these Northern dresses that are lined with wool and fur. Lovely, but overly warm for the South," the second girl notes.

"Our poor queen. She has been a sad sight." Catelyn's attention sharpened at this. "When the king left, she was so heartbroken she couldn't move out of bed. All she did was lie there, poor girl."

"They all say she brought it on herself. A barren queen is as bad as no queen at all," another piped up. Catelyn noticed that the third, a mousy girl, stayed quiet.

"Why is she sending you girls back tomorrow?" Catelyn asks, uncomfortable with the current subject.

"She says that she will care for herself."

"We do not argue. She's putting us on paid holiday until she returns."

Catelyn's eyes drifted to Ser Jaime in the corner looking regal, but distracted, in his scaled armor. "Does the Kingsguard knight leave too?" she asks.

"Nay, my lady. Ser Jaime is to remain with her," one woman says before darting her eyes to her right and left. She leans into Catelyn, putting her mouth by her ear. "They say it's because the king wants her watched. He never leaves her side, you know."

"Well, he is absent from her side now,” Catelyn points out. “Why is that?"

"He's never been too kind to the queen."

Catelyn looked back to Ser Jaime and wondered if he was the only one. It seemed a cruelty in itself to assign the rival wife's brother to guard her. It made it worse that they were twins, meant to be alike in every way.

 _It is a reminder,_ Catelyn realized. _So she won't forget what she would return to._

A twinge of pity could be felt in her heart at the fallen woman’s fate. It was only the slightest whisper, but no more.

 

* * *

 

Ned is late in coming to bed, but she stays up for him anyways. She knew he had left immediately after the feast; she could only guess as to where, though she had a notion.

When he slips into bed beside her, he is deathly quiet. In the dark Catelyn could discern sorrow in his stormy eyes, a sorrow that she instinctively wished to heal. She puts a hand on his arm to pull his attention, and then smiles.

"Where have you been at this hour? If I were the jealous sort I'd say you've been with another woman." Ned cracks a little smile at that, but his gaze is still dark.

"I have been with a woman, but not as you'd think," he tells her with a sigh. "My sister has suffered much. The gods have not been kind to her."

"Why did she not come to supper?” she asks with concern.

"She grew hysterical after we visited the crypts. She kept saying that she ought to be down there with them. And she kept apologizing for everything; for her visit, for her living, for shaming her family - gods be good, Catelyn, she was broken up. I took her to her room and she did not leave it."

Catelyn tried to imagine the queen in hysterics and found it fairly easy; she had known of her volatile nature, and she had seen her sad smiles. But it was still an unsettling thing to imagine.

"I was in her room, with her, and we had spoken. Jon had been sleeping on her bed so it was mostly in whispers, but it seemed that she did not wish to stop speaking." Ned paused to meet Catelyn's eye. He squeezed the hand she put on his arm. "I swear to you, Catelyn, she is a good woman. She knew not what she did. Though she may be distasteful in your eyes-"

"No, my lord, that is not-" she tried to interrupt, embarrassed, but was overtaken.

"I urge you to extend your kindness to her. Lend her your ear." He kisses her knuckles, sending warmth coursing through her. "You have offered both to me and healed me with it. Now I ask that you do the same for my sister."

Catelyn threw her arms around he good husband's neck, wanting to be away from his sorrowful gaze. He looked at her as if she were a martyr, a saint, when she was neither; Catelyn had been judgmental and filled with ill will.

"I would be happy to help your sister, Ned," Catelyn murmured into his shoulder. "Though I do not know what good it will do."

"I ask that you try," he returns, wrapping his arms around her, holding her to him in an embrace that was unmatched by any other.

 

* * *

 

Catelyn finds Lyanna in her old room the following afternoon. It is Ser Jaime who bids her entrance and announces her. She had stepped in this room but a few times, but never lingered. It was said that it had remained untouched since Lyanna had left it, that some considered it poor luck to be near. But it clearly brought Lyanna comfort as she sat on her bed, a pillow in her lap.

“Good afternoon, Lyanna. I had been looking for you,” Catelyn tells her goodsister. "I was hoping we may talk plainly, as sisters may."

Lyanna nods, her eyes wide. At close proximity, Catelyn notes the queen is not flawless. She has freckles splattered across a long nose along with strong brows that, while not unkempt, were not thin and trim either. Paired with her large eyes and boyish figure, these features made her look more of a child than a woman, as something that needed attention and care.

Lyanna motions to a chair across from the bed, which Catelyn lowers herself in. "We had missed you at supper the night before," Catelyn tells her softly.

"I'm afraid I could not bring myself to come," her goodsister answers in a tone that sounded rehearsed. A courtly tone, she realizes. "The road has tired me."

"You needn’t hide from me, good Lyanna," Catelyn tells her with a frown. "Your brother is concerned for you. I want to help."

Lyanna falls silent. She fiddles with laces on the front of her dress, clearly discomforted by something. Yet Catelyn felt it was not only the conversation, but also something in her she was uneasy with.

With a sigh, she, to Catelyn’s surprise, partially undoes the laces, allowing her breasts some freedom. She notices that they are unnaturally large, ill fitted to her small body. There is milk in them, she realizes, and plenty of it. Her discomfort no doubt drew from the soreness of having no suckling babe to relieve her of the weight; Catelyn had been lucky to never experience such pain, but she knew it well from Lysa’s laments, whose miscarriages had also left her with overly tender breasts for moons after.

“I know Ned put you up to this,” she murmurs, looking away from Catelyn. “I know very well that you find me unpleasant. I do not blame you.” Catelyn opens her mouth to protest, but Lyanna pins her with a cool stare that freezes the words in her throat. “I have taken much from you, after all. If you wish to leave, I will tell my brother that you had been kind to me. I will not force you to exchange words with the dragon’s whore.”

“M-My lady, I do not know what you speak of…” Catelyn says after clearing her throat. She finds she cannot meet Lyanna’s cold eyes, and lowers her gaze to her lap.

“Is that not what they all call me? This morning I rode through a village I used to run about as a child, and they spat at my horse’s hooves and called me the dragon’s whore.” Lyanna sighs, expelling the fire from her. “You may believe it if you wish, my lady. I have begun to believe it about myself.” Catelyn does not know how to respond; a lull passes between them, one that presses upon her chest, prompting uneasiness. Lyanna speaks again, easing some of it. “The gods are punishing me, Lady Catelyn. Your kindness is unwarranted.”

“Do you believe you deserve punishment?” Catelyn hears herself asking. She wishes to take it back as soon as she says it, as the hurt look in Lyanna’s eye stings her. “I’m sorry—“

“I believe I had been punished enough when the gods took my brother and father from me, robbing you of a husband and leaving my brothers and I as broken-hearted orphans. I thought I had been punished when Rhaegar refused my wish to leave him, to return home before the war escalated. I thought it was punishment enough that they took five babes from my womb and made me bury them in the ground. Perhaps I deserved all that, for all the men, women, and children who died for my folly.” Lyanna balls her small hands into fists, and Catelyn stares at them instead of the fury in her face. “But the folly was only half mine. Rhaegar is the one who urged me to leave, knowing that I was unhappy in my betrothal. Rhaegar is the one who lied to me when he said he loved me, when all he wanted was for me to spread my legs and grant him a child. I was still half a child; Rhaegar was older than me, wiser, but he is as selfish as I am and just as guilty. Yet I am the one who suffers most. Where is the fairness in that?”

“I declare that there is none, my lady,” Catelyn says softly to her.

“Now he has a new woman in his bed whom they call the Light of the West. I am called a wolf-bitch and a whore while she is a shining light.” Lyanna chuckles dryly, taking Catelyn by surprise. “The irony of it all is that I had wed Rhaegar before he bedded me. Under the heart tree, here in this godswood, we said our vows before the grass beneath it served as our marriage bed. I was never his whore. I had always been his wife.”

“Princess Elia had also been his wife,” Catelyn reminds her, suddenly bolder. “Lady Cersei is doing to you what you had done to Princess Elia.”

Lyanna smiles sadly. “That is not lost on me. Since Rhaegar had married the Lannister woman I’ve prayed to the gods to relay an apology to Elia Martell in the heavens. I pray they give me the same grace she held under such humiliation.” She pauses before speaking again, in a voice low and secretive. “But the gods were kind to her. They killed her.”

“That is not kindness,” Catelyn suddenly hears herself reprimanding. “The gods do not kill out of kindness.”

“Would you call it kind if the gods spared her while her children perished?” Lyanna asks her, tilting her watery eyes up at her. Catelyn remains silent. “I did not think you would. Instead she is with her children and her parents somewhere in the heavens, spared any more earthly pain. I have wished I were dead more than once, Catelyn.” The confession jars her; never in her short life had such thoughts crossed her mind. Not even in her darkest days did she consider death. To hear Lyanna, a queen, a beloved sister, declare such a thing frightened her. “In death I may apologize to those I have harmed. My father first, then my brother, then Elia.”

“You shouldn’t say such things, Lyanna,” Catelyn warns her in a strained voice, her superstition getting the better of her.

“You ought not to worry. The gods kill those they love to spare them any further suffering; they do not love me. What is more…” her eyes wander to somewhere behind Catelyn. “I have a son whom I must live for. I cannot trust anyone to protect him. I do not doubt that you understand that.” Catelyn nods; her children were her life. She would kill for them, as no doubt Lyanna would as well. In this, she felt a kinship with the queen. “I urge that you do not pity me, Catelyn.”

“I cannot help it,” Catelyn whispers, walking over to her. She sits across from her on the bed and takes her small hands, as cold as they are. “I had told myself for years that you deserved punishment, but this is not just.”

“What isn’t?” Lyanna asks her, furrowing her brows.

“You love him still,” Catelyn says, squeezing her fingers. “You do, don’t you?” She had been keen to notice this, how each time she uttered Rhaegar’s name it was one part scorn and two parts tenderness. And how not? The king had been Lyanna’s only companion for years now. Catelyn could only begin to imagine what had passed between them, two lovers that were not meant to be, but were drawn to each other regardless.

Lyanna turns her face away, hiding her eyes, confirming Catelyn’s notion. “Whether I love him or not is irrelevant. I live for my son now.”

“Then what shall you do when you return to him? Will you feign love for the king?” Catelyn asks her with wide eyes. “While your company in Winterfell will always be welcome, you surely must know that you will have to return to him.”

“I do not know what I will do,” Lyanna confesses to her. “I have come here for respite, for I am plagued with worries. I do not trust King’s Landing, I do not trust Cersei Lannister, and I cannot bear the thought of Rhaegar with another woman. I wake up nightly to hold my son to my breast for I fear for his safety upon my return. But can I do? What choice do I have?” There is a desperation in her voice that very much nears a cry for help.

“He will not release you from your vows?” Catelyn offers weakly.

“I have already asked. He holds to me because he needs me. I know it sounds mad, but there is still love in his heart for me.”

“You cannot say he loves you when he has replaced you,” she tells her, emboldened by the frank talk shared thus far. “Cersei is not a mistress, Lyanna. She is a wife, as you are.”

“And a scheming one at that,” Lyanna hisses. “She had wanted him for so long. I’ve no doubt in my heart that she has plotted her way into his bed, though I bear no proof.” She waves her hand now, dismissing the conversation. “It matters little. When I return I will do what I must to ensure my son’s survival.”

“And what of the Lannisters’ ambition? They will want your son’s claim to the throne.” They have gotten this far, and they will want more, no doubt. Catelyn recalled her father’s tired sighs and curses over the Lannisters’ ruthless sacking of his camps after Rhaegar’s victory at the Trident. “They won’t stop,” her father would mumble under his breath, thinking no one could hear.

“I would say that they might have it. I don’t wish for Jon to be king. I only want him to live.”

“And is the king so fond of Cersei that he may relinquish Jon’s claim?” Lyanna goes silent, hiding something. “My lady, what is it?” Catelyn asks, squeezing her fingers.

“Rhaegar had only wanted me so I may bear him a son. He calls Jon the prince that was promised. He dreams of putting him on the throne.”

“I don’t understand,” Catelyn murmurs. “You have given him that. Why did he wed Lady Cersei?”

“He requires more heirs. He had told me once of a prophecy, the reason he needed Jon. I didn’t understand it then, and I do not understand it now.” Her voice begins to strain with something between anger and sorrow. “It may have all been a lie, Catelyn, but I do not know. He had lied to me when he said he loved me. He did not love me. Not until I fell pregnant did I feel like he truly loved me. I have failed in accomplishing this again, thus his attentions go elsewhere. I imagine he’ll have no use of me once Cersei gives him the children he so wants. But I cannot let him go. I must pretend. I must tolerate. The life of my son is at hand. It is no light matter.”

“I agree, my lady.” Catelyn bows her head, chewing her lip as she mulled the matter over. She had always been aware of politics since she was young, knowing very well that her maidenhead, her virtue, was a tool to be used in order to negotiate a strong alliance. She had accepted that she would not wed out of love, but out of convenience. But Lyanna had wed out of love for her king, though it was one-sided at the start. Now there was a second queen, a union formed out of ambition but may threaten the fruit of the first. This was not what Catelyn was used to. She had always expected Ned to protect her until his last breath, as she was his one and only. His attentions and affections had been for only her from the start. There was no competition as what surely would exist between Lyanna and Cersei. There was no need to worry about claims and succession.

Catelyn found herself thinking of Robb and Sansa, imagining a situation where a claim to Winterfell meant certain dangers, attempts on their lives, where adults determine whether they live or die while in pursuit of a concept that children would find difficult to understand. That was little Jon’s future: a tumultuous fight to live with only a mother to shield him from harm. But what could Lyanna do?

Catelyn looks back to Lyanna, to her childish face, her slender body, the head of curls that seemed more suited to a small girl. Even her gaze seemed childlike, her sighs carrying a hint of breathless wonder. Try as she might, any man could overtake her. He had only to toss her aside to clear a path to a child.

“Catelyn,” Lyanna’s sweet voice coupled with the light touch on her cheek pulls her from her thoughts. “Why are you crying?”

Catelyn blinks, moving a hand to her face, surprised to find it wet. “I don’t know,” she whispers in awe, staring at the droplets in her hand, then to the ones that fell to her lap.

“Don’t cry for me, sweet sister,” Lyanna urges, lifting her hand to her lips. “Think only of your own family. Forget my sorrows.”

“I cannot,” Catelyn tells her, surprised by the tenderness of the kiss she had placed on her knuckles. “You are family, too.” The words of her house resonate in her head: family, duty, honor.

Lyanna must be recused. Family first, and everything else after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female friendship is great. isn't it great?


	13. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime confronts Cersei on the day of her wedding. Lyanna and Jon teach him a lesson in duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy! for those wondering about a rhaegar chapter, i urge you to hold on! i'm saving him for something special. ;)
> 
> and to all my commenters: as appreciated as your feedback is, let's keep it civil in the comments please...

Once her marriage to Rhaegar had been cemented, Cersei refused Jaime's affections at every turn.

He would try desperately to receive the love she was always so generous in giving to him, kissing her when no one was looking, slipping into her bedroom late at night, but was met with cold lips and closed legs. Conversation with her had become useless; her head was lost to the clouds as one named kept repeating itself on her tongue: Rhaegar, Rhaegar, Rhaegar. The sheets were Rhaegar. The food was Rhaegar. The sun was Rhaegar. Everything was Rhaegar.

He came to her bedroom on the morning of her wedding, trying with one last effort to return in her favor. He had crushed his lips against her, moved her robe off her beautiful body, before he was shoved away coldly, looked upon as a stranger trying to force his way.

"Are you too good for me now that you're to be queen?" Jaime asks her, trying to sound venomous, but came out desperate. "You used to beg me to fuck you. What's changed?"

"I'm marrying Rhaegar," she insists with a tilt of her chin. "I belong to him now."

"You belong to me," Jaime returns weakly, dropping to his knees before her. "As I belong to you. We came into this world together. You'll come to me sooner or later."

"I choose later," Cersei says with a conclusive air. She picks up the robe on the floor, tying it around her waist before sitting at the vanity. She searched for her imperfections in the looking glass, though she had none. She was perfect. "The wolf-bitch will let us be for a year. I'll be all he wants." She smiles, proud of herself; a hint of pink can be seen in her cheeks, the slightest implication of a blush. Cersei did not blush. "Have you given Rhaegar your decision on whether or not you'll be guarding the bitch while she's away?"

"No," Jaime said softly, rising to his feet. "I thought you wanted me here." If he didn't go, then Barristan would as the only man of the Kingsguard who cared one whit for her.

"You'll serve us better if you go with her," she says, using the most dreaded pronoun: 'us', she says, making it sound like it was for both their benefit rather than just her's and father's. Jaime was not a part of this 'us'. He wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted something else, him and Cersei, a 'we' for the ages.

"What else could you possibly want to do to the girl?" Jaime asks, incredulous. "You've put five of her babes in the ground, Rhaegar won't be fucking her for the next year, and her son won't be around to bother you. What else can I do?"

Cersei smirks. "I hear the North has woods filled with bears. How unfortunate would it be if the bitch goes riding and is attacked by one? And that her son perished with her?"

"Are you asking me to kill her and the prince?" Jaime asks, wanting to sound surprised, but came out bored. He had heard similar requests before; it was just the sort of thing their father would want, and the sort of things that would put Jaime in Cersei’s favor.

"If you kill the whelp, I've no doubt his bitch mother will take her of herself," Cersei says with a wave of her hand. "All I desire is a throne for my first son to sit in and a broken-hearted king with a new spot in his heart for a woman," Cersei says flatly. "Though perhaps I shouldn't worry. If I give him a child within this time, if I'm kind enough... he might give me both." Jaime laughed dryly, prompting Cersei to whip around with a miffed look on her face. "What's so funny, brother?" she asks, upset. Jaime walks up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders; she looks forward again, and Jaime looks at her in the mirror.

"It's sweet to see you so naive, dear sister," Jaime crooned, smiling devilishly. He places a hand on her breast, then slowly drags his fingers up the thin column of her neck before holding her chin. "Do you think Rhaegar is so easily swayed by a pretty face? Perhaps you should ask Sers Arthur and Gerold about Rhaegar's intentions when he took Lyanna, of how he treated her after. Better yet, I say you ask Oswell; the other two won't tell you but get Oswell drunk enough and he'll spare you no detail."

"What did he do?" Cersei asks softly, curious.

"He wanted so badly to get her with child," he murmurs in her ear, biting the edge of it. "He rode her like a horse every night, again and again. Stone walls echo; if the door was open they could hear her moaning and begging, 'please, Rhaegar, please.'" His hand slides down to her belly, slipping into her robe to feel her soft skin. She had her eyes closed, her brows furrowed in frustration, but she did not move against his touches. "The men had figured out she was with child when all those noises became... less frequent. That's all he had wanted, of course. For her to spread her legs long enough for his seed to take root. That's all he wants from you too."

"I don't care," Cersei half whispers, half moans. "I want to give him children. I want him to love me more than her."

"You think that will happen?" he asks, kissing her temple, moving his hand farther down her middle. "Rhaegar may be quick to marry, but his love is no easy thing to earn. It took our friend Lyanna years before she got so lucky."

"But then she failed him," she reminded, shifting in her seat when his hand reached between her legs. "I won't."

"He won't love you. He can't love you, not like I do. He'll use you then be done with you." He tilted her head up to brush his lips with her own. "Not I, sweet sister. I want only you. I'm not greedy. I'm not like Rhaegar."

Her green eyes flash open. "No, you're not," she says evenly before wriggling out of his grasp and getting to her feet. "Leave me, Jaime."

"You will return to me," Jaime insists gruffly. "When she returns from the North and you're full with Rhaegar's child, you'll see whose bed he'll frequent more. When you realize that your sweet king's love is sour, you will come back to me."

"Then go north with the bitch. Return with her corpse and that of her son's and ensure that Rhaegar will need no one but me," Cersei shoots back bitterly. "I will make him love me, Jaime. Just get rid of her."

"Who is speaking to me now? You, or father?" Jaime asks her, furious. "What does it matter to you if her son becomes king? You have Rhaegar. It’s father who wants power."

"Perhaps I want power too," Cersei replies with vitriol. "With my son on the throne, I'll have that and more."

"I think you ought to know that Rhaegar had plans of putting Jon on the throne before he was even a seed in his mother's womb," Jaime snaps back. "He had even planned to place Aegon behind Jon in the line of succession. He'll not put your babe above him."

"This is why you kill him!" Cersei exclaims as if it were so obvious, so easy. "If you love me, you'll kill him for me. Let the bitch do herself in after that- I don't care. I want this, Jaime. I've waited my whole life for this."

"For him or for a throne?" Jaime asks, incredulous.

"For both."

Jaime shook his head. “You don’t know what you want,” he tells her, turning his back on her. “But I’ll wait until you do.”

He walks out without another word.

* * *

 

“So you will be accompanying the queen north?” Ser Barristan asks after the wedding. Jaime had been quite happy brooding with a goblet in his hand, knowing very well that Rhaegar was fucking his sister who would no doubt convince herself he did it out of love. Jaime looks to Barristan with a frown.

“Yes, I will be,” he tells him, recalling his and Rhaegar’s exchange at the wedding feast. The king had been seated between his two wives with regal calm, despite being caught in the middle of palpable tension unlike that of which Jaime have ever felt (and Jaime had fought many a man). His sister had been beaming, her eyes sparkling like jewels as she blushed like a dutiful bride. Lyanna had been sitting stiffly, her cold eyes fixed somewhere in front of her with a stubborn jut of jaw. It was quite a show.

“It’s strange, Ser Jaime but for some reason I cannot trust you,” the older knight says, meeting his eyes.

“What a shame, Ser Barristan, for I certainly trust you,” Jaime returns with a japing lilt.

“A word of warning, Jaime,” Barristan tells him in a voice as cold as ice. “If anything happens to her on your watch, I will blame you.” Jaime stares at him in silence, and for a moment fear courses through his veins as he wonders if Barristan knew of his orders.

 _He can’t know,_ Jaime tells himself. _An old bastard like him can’t have a mind for intrigues._

Jaime raises his goblet, flashing a sardonic smile to the knight. “Long live the queen,” he says before downing the last of the wine.

Barristan nods. “So I pray.”

 _Yes, pray,_ Jaime wants to say. _The gods will surely listen to you._

* * *

 

Watching the queen was a trying task.

She was overly fond of long rides at arbitrary times of the day, meaning Jaime would have to saddle up a horse for himself and chase her around as she explored one territory to the next. They never ventured too far from the keep at Winterfell, but Lyanna liked to tarry by picking flowers, drinking from rivers, and sleeping in the grass. He had one more than one occasion considered the possibility of finishing her off in her distraction. She slept so soundly too, with an arm flung across her eyes and her neck so exposed, but Jaime could never bring himself to do it, at least not in that fashion.

One day she ventures off into the godswood, forcing Jaime to reluctantly follow. The forest had an unsettling quality to it, teeming with life unknown and noises unseen. A crack of a branch off the side would prompt him to grip the handle of his sword, while a raven cawing above sent shivers down his spine. The queen, however, appeared totally at peace with herself in these woods, silently leading the way in a fashion that implied that she knew these woods well. How anyone could understand the dense maze that was this rotten place was beyond him.

She leads them into a clearing where light poured through the canopy and onto the ground below. There was a pool, not too large, with an altar on side. Behind the altar was a tree, the largest Jaime had ever seen, with crimson leaves and white weathered bark that bore a disparate face that had been carved into it. Jaime recognized it as a heart tree, a relic of the old gods. For some strange reason, it unsettles him further, as its hollow eyes seem to follow him wherever he went.

He watches as Lyanna dismounts from her horse, landing on the ground with only a crunch of leaves. Jaime does the same, though he is weary in doing so.

"It hasn't changed at all," Lyanna muses in a voice just loud enough for him to hear. "I used to spend hours in this godswood, you know."

"I hear there are bears in it," he says flatly, recalling what Cersei had told him.

"And wolves, and stags, and boars," Lyanna adds. "Though I've never seen any of it. The tree had always protected us."

Jaime scoffs at the childish notion. "Does it now?" he asks in a teasing lilt, amused by her. She shoots him a challenging stare.

"I do not lie, Ser Jaime, which is more than what I can say for others," she replies. Though she says no names, Jaime hears the implications. "I also have no false notions regarding the old gods. They are crueler than your southern ones. But the heart tree is different.” Her hand flutters to the face carved into the old bark. "These faces were carved by the children of the forest. Old Nan used to tell us stories about them all the time." She chuckles softly, though Jaime finds nothing funny. "Benjen and I used to pretend we were children of the forest. We would steal knives from the kitchen and carve faces into trees. Father caught us once returning the knives and he had been so furious. He threatened to punish us for it, but he never did. He never rose a hand to us. At least not to me."

"Perhaps he was afraid of you," Jaime offers with a smile, circling the pool across from her. He had seen her anger once or twice before; it did have a way of frightening people. It was why they still called her wolf-bitch.

"Afraid of me? He was my father, Ser Jaime," she says as if it weren't common knowledge. His eyes go to the pool, admiring how the sunlight dappled against its placid surface. A single red leaf falls into it, causing ripples. "You were there, weren't you?" she asks, suddenly meek. "When they... Brandon and father...?"

She does not need to continue. In an instant his nostrils fill with the smell of burning flesh, his ears with the sound of a mad laugh, and his mouth tastes as if it were filled with ashes. "Yes, I was there," Jaime admits in a whisper, ashamed even to say it.

"Oh," she says as if not expecting a response in the affirmative. The two fall silent, but Jaime is glad of it. It was not the first that he let people die; he did the same to Elia and her children, choosing to let them burn. He did not want to recall any more of his cowardice disguised as loyalty.

"Why were you picked to guard me?" She asked this soft but suddenly, as if it were a question that she had long been yearning to ask, but was still hesitant to do so. "Was there no one else? Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell- they did not offer?"

"Ser Barristan offered," Jaime said. Ser Barristan was the only one among them who was still fond of the woman, finding something in her that reminded her of someone he loved.

"But Rhaegar chose you. He has a liking for Lannisters, it seems." Her eyes darkened then and were cast listlessly to a crimson leaf on the heart tree. "Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell used to like me, you know. Back at the Tower they were so kind to me..." Her trailing off implied a change, one Jaime was aware of. Arthur truly did dislike her now, though he did not say as much and likely never would. It was just like with Elia; he never spoke of the late queen, but his sworn brothers knew of his amour for her. It was one he never acted upon, and one that shattered him when her body laid charred among the ashes of her children. As for Ser Oswell, he refused not out of distaste, but rather due to his own broken heart. Once when he was very drunk he told Jaime that he couldn't bear to look at Lyanna, for every time he did he thought he might kill himself for it, as the idea that another man's hands had the privilege of pleasing her, or the potential to hurt her, haunted him.

Jaime circled the pool and sat down across from Lyanna, amongst red leaves that crackled when he sat upon them. He looked at Lyanna who sat at the altar, her hands folded so piously in her lap with a gaze that stretched for miles, and he wondered if there was more to the girl than he realized.

"You shouldn't be here with me," she said in a murmur, her eyes still averted from his. "The Kingsguard is sworn to protect the king, not the queen. Not _a_ queen." He saw her lips curl into a quivering sneer.

"The Kingsguard does protect the queen, your grace," he said softly in return. Rhaella's voice suddenly filled his head, and he felt his breaths fall short.

"But only at the king's orders," Lyanna corrected. _"You're hurting me,"_ Rhaella had cried out in a voice loud enough to be heard through the door. _"You're hurting me,"_ as her husband bruised and battered her when he should have been loving and gentle.

"It is our duty to do as the king says," Jaime said mechanically, and hated himself for it.

"Duty? Ha!" She let out a short bitter laugh. "Duty only runs so far, and when it dries up people grow selfish- and it seems that it is only men who may be selfish. I had always hated it, hated that I couldn't be selfish like a man, take what I want and do what I want while the world excused me." Her eyes pierced him now, digging into him for being born a man. "Rhaegar returned to King's Landing a hero, and I arrived a whore. But it was he who asked me to run, was it not? It was he who hid me in a tower and-" She stopped, perhaps fearing what she would say next. Then she shut her eyes briefly, and exhaled. "The way I see it, Ser Jaime, is that there are two forms of duty: one to others, and one to yourself. And a mortal can only do for others for so long until they are left to help themselves."

Jaime reflected on that, his eyes dropping to the clear pool before him. _"Take care of Elia and the children for me,"_ Rhaegar's steely voice commanded in his head. It was his duty then to protect them, those small helpless beings, but Jaime was selfish. There were all those chances he had to run his sword through Aerys's belly and be done with it- _Why?_ Jaime asked himself. _Was your honor worth more than your life? Was standing by a Mad King greater than defending a woman and her children?_ Perhaps all his duty had run dry, as Lyanna said, and left him with nothing but himself, and his cruel, base desires.

Time passed in utter silence, with only the rustle of leaves and their soft, steady breathing falling on their ears. Jaime kept staring at the pool, looking down at his distorted reflection and wondering, _Why? Why?_ Lyanna's stirring pulled him from his thoughts and he watched her make her way to the edge of the pool across from him, sinking to her knees and leaning forward to look upon her face too.

“Have you ever loved someone, Ser Jaime?” she asks suddenly in breathy, ethereal tone. Jaime looks up to find her looking at him, grey eyes looking past his white armor and into his heart.

“I’m Kingsguard, I’m not allowed to love,” he responds, smiling in jest, but she only continues to look at him coldly. “Though I might have once or twice,” he adds in a low voice, suddenly humbled.

“It is a strange being. You love someone so terribly at the start, ignoring actions and words that now seem different, somehow. Then you open your eyes and realize that it had been poison from the start. But the past is the past, and you cannot take it back anymore. What is done is done.”

“What is done is done,” Jaime repeats thoughtlessly.

“But it hurts, just a little, when you think and realize that they don’t need you anymore. You become nothing, just another person to whom they may always say, 'I loved you once' without realizing that you never stopped loving them at all.” Thoughts of Cersei filled his head as they always did when he needed her most. Sweet Cersei, with her demanding mouth and lovely smiles. Beautiful Cersei, with her bright green eyes and soft skin. Dearest Cersei, the only one he could ever love. But now she didn’t love him, but he still loved her.

It did hurt.

“Thinking back now, I realize it wasn’t worth at all to fall in love. Not when it hurt so many people; people loved by others, with fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sisters, brothers. People I loved myself.” She looks to Jaime with that chilling stare again. “You shouldn’t have to hurt others because you love. Don’t you agree?”

Jaime looks away, shamed faced. He had been planning to do just that, after all; secure Cersei’s love with a child’s death. He had done terrible things to keep her by his side, to keep their love a secret when all he wanted to do was run away with her and live without shame. But he would do them all the same, just for her.

“I agree,” he responds flatly, filled with a raw honesty. He didn’t know what brought it on; perhaps it was the serenity of the godswood or the queen’s accepting aura, but he felt the need to speak with truth. “But the fear of hurting someone wouldn’t stop me.”

“It would have stopped me,” Lyanna says to him firmly. “Whether it is by your hand or not, people should not have to suffer because you loved someone. It is selfish to think that way.”

“Then perhaps I’m selfish,” Jaime tells her in cold jest, despite it being the truth.

“I didn’t mean you are,” Lyanna replies quietly.

“But I am.”

She looks away from him, but cannot hide her face. It is wrought with sorrow; with pain that she way trying desperately to force back. For a moment, Jaime saw a woman, broken but hardly holding on. And for a moment, Jaime becomes a knight, and Lyanna his queen.

Jaime extended a hand to her from across the pool, making it only halfway. She must have sensed it still, for she turns her head to look at it with curiosity.

"Are you offering me your hand, Ser Jaime?" Jaime suddenly felt foolish, but as he moved to retract his hand, she laid her own in his, gripping his fingers. "How very chivalrous of you," she said with a chuckle before smiling, her face lighting up immediately.

Jaime wondered how she found the strength to give him such a beautiful smile.

Her fingers suddenly slip from his, fluttering to her middle instead. Jaime looks to her face quizzically, finding that it was very pale, paler than usual, and the light in her eyes seemed to flicker and waver.

“Are you well, your grace?” Jaime asks with a frown, rising to his feet.

“It is nothing,” she reassures him in a meek voice. “Just a dizzy spell.” She comes to her feet as well, but wobbles, reaching out to brace herself against the heart tree.

“We ought to go back,” Jaime says with concern.

“No, no,” she whispers. Her hand flies to her mouth, and she buckles, falling to her knees. Jaime rushes over to her, gathering the queen in his arms. Her eyes, grey as stone, look to him for a single moment before drooping closed.

* * *

 

The maester says it was nothing to worry about. Just a little overexertion, emotional or physical, and it was a natural response, considering that she was pregnant.

Nothing to worry about.

Jaime’s first thought is to write to Cersei, or father, or perhaps even Rhaegar. Someone had to know, and gods knew that Cersei would prefer to be the first. Then she could tell Rhaegar, have her sent back to King’s Landing, and in a few weeks the queen would be bleeding out. If she lived, she could bury the child too.

But Jaime does none of this. His rotten conscience urged him to speak to the queen first.

He goes in to see her as her brother shoots daggers at him from behind. And how not? Jaime could send her life into ruin. With a letter, she will be sent back along with her son without any time to prepare for war.

The queen sits on her bed, wringing her hands in her lap. She raises frightened eyes to him, but does not falter in speaking first. “You cannot tell Rhaegar,” she urges him savagely. “You cannot tell anyone. Please, Ser Jaime, I cannot go back, not yet. Please, I beg of you-“

“He must know sooner or later,” Jaime cuts her off, unwilling to hear her beg. “I don’t think he’ll take well to you coming back after a year with a babe in your arms. Just a thought, though.” He smiles, trying to lighten the mood, but Lyanna remains grave.

“I know you are bound by honor to report this, but I’m begging you, please don’t tell him. Not yet, at least. Write to him once it is too late for me to move. Perhaps around eight moons…”

“Have you taken any thought as to what would happen to me if I delayed? Or your brother, if he doesn’t report it either?”

“I know it is dangerous. I know I am asking much from you, but if Rhaegar asks Ned why he didn’t tell him sooner, he could say that I promised to write him. And perhaps you could say you wrote as soon as you knew, but ravens get lost all the time.” Desperation was turning her speech thick and stumbling. “Please, Ser Jaime, my life and that of my children’s are at hand. You are sworn to protect us.”

“I answer to the king,” Jaime says mechanically, though it is a bold-faced lie. He answered to his father, to Cersei.

“I will take the blame for all this. If he threatens you or Ned with anything, I will convince him that it is all my fault. I will say that I lied and threatened, that I said I would write him but never did. And if he is difficult…” she pauses, looking to her hands. “A wife knows ways to make her husband pliant. For as long as he is a man, he shall not be immune to that.” She gets to her feet and walks over to Jaime, surprising him by taking his hand in hers. “Do not tell him until I say so. Then you may say that I hid it, that I told you I was only getting fat, that I lied to you. Rhaegar does not like to argue, and since you are the queen’s brother and the master of coin’s son, he will not do you nor your standing any harm. I assure you, he won’t.”

“Why do you trust me?” he finds himself asking. He thought back to their rides together, her sleeping in the grass, their time in the godswood. All times he could have done away with her and fabricated a story after. “You know my father and sister, yet you seem so quick to put your trust in me. Why? I could have killed you a thousand times over already.”

Lyanna’s eyes soften. “But you haven’t killed me,” she reminds him with a squeeze of his fingers. “I have no choice but to trust you. I will do anything for your silence, Ser Jaime.” He sees her fingers tremble as she pulls them away from his hands. She goes to his cheek, brushing it as lightly as a whisper. “Anything, Ser Jaime,” she repeats, and the fire in her eyes makes her meaning very clear.

“There doesn’t need to be any of that,” Jaime tells her, gently taking her hand off his face. “I’m sworn to protect you. I suppose I can hold onto a secret or two.”

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she says with a smile of relief.

Jaime considers for a moment how his sister may react. He imagined it would be with wildfire, her grinding her teeth and stamping her feet, demanding she tell her why, oh why would he keep such a thing from her?

And perhaps he would say that ravens get lost all the time.

* * *

 

He slips into her room late one evening with Cersei’s face intoxicating his mind.

They had been at Winterfell for a month, such a damnably cold place. It put ice in his veins and in his heart, leaving him with little love but much desire, an incurable wanting for a golden lioness that would not love him without a favor. He had denied her some already- but there was one that remained.

Her son, Jon, sleeps beside her, laying on his back while his mother curled into him, a hand resting protectively on his middle. Her nose was buried in his hair, dark curls just like her own. But in the middle of the night, all looks dark.

Jaime looms over them as Cersei’s words echo in his head. _”If you kill the whelp, I've no doubt his bitch mother will take her of herself. If you kill the whelp, his bitch mother will take her of herself. If you kill the whelp. Kill the whelp.”_

He swore he would protect the queen, but what of her son? _I have loyalties,_ Jaime reminds himself. _To my family. To father. To Cersei._ Arthur Dayne had told him otherwise, but he was no Arthur Dayne. Would the death be difficult to explain? Perhaps. But the queen said it herself: he was the queen’s brother and the master of coin’s son. All he had to say is that a different guard was watching her door that night, that he slipped away for only a minute, only to take a piss…

Jaime kept his sword at his side while Cersei’s smile warmed his skin. A sword would be too much; it needed to be quick and clean. He pulls a dirk out of his boot, a dagger of Valyrian steel with rubies encrusted in its gold hilt, a gift he received on his 16th nameday. Cersei had gotten a gown and string of pearls that year. She was envious.

Just as he puts it to the child’s throat, his eyes open. They are bright, even in the dark, hinting at its pale grey hue. For a moment, Jaime panics, and he tells himself to finish it, you fool, before he makes any noise. But the child is quiet, accepting even, as he looks up at Jaime with the sort of innocent trust only a child could muster.

The same sort of look Lyanna had pinned him with.

He is pulled from his trance at once, and Jaime suddenly sees the scene as someone looking into through the foggy window. There is a knight in pure white armor with his dagger to a helpless child’s throat while his mother slept beside him. And for what? “Coward,” Jaime mumbles to himself as he sheathes his dirk. “Humbled by a babe.”

He had failed two queens already; perhaps this time, he would serve the queen and protect her children. Perhaps he might open her bedroom door and order the king to get off her. Perhaps he might run into wildfire and pull her body and that of her children’s from the flames. _I need you here, to guard my wife and children while I am gone,_ Rhaegar had told him years ago at the gates to the Red Keep.

Perhaps he could do his duty, just once.

Cersei would simply have to manage.


	14. Rhaegar IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar meets with his small council, and takes a tour of the castle with Cersei.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much deliberation, I decided on a Rhaegar chapter before a Cersei chapter. But do not fear; Cersei is next!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Shall we close this meeting, then?”

Rhaegar asked this question with all caution. The small council meeting room was a tense place to be, much too tense for all that had occurred in the past moon. He had only just gotten married, after all, and allowed himself a week’s holiday to honeymoon with Cersei, though they did not leave castle grounds; nor did they need to, since most of their time was spent in their bedchambers. He had left Jon to care for the kingdom in this week, but did not expect that storm that fell upon him when he returned.

Those who were devout to the Faith of the Seven had been nearly up in arms over his marriage, calling it an act against the gods. Though the High Septon had officiated their marriage, thus blessing it. Still, it seemed both smallfolk and nobles found common ground in their distaste, though it was nothing more than through slander and libel. But slander and libel was dangerous, even for a king- perhaps even more so.

What was more, Dorne was still irritated, and had been inflamed upon learning of Rhaegar’s second marriage. They were not devout peoples by any means, and thus their anger irritated Rhaegar. Cersei had been a splendid queen thus far, taking to her duties in a fashion reminiscent of Elia. Their original qualms had been with Lyanna’s shortcomings as queen, after all, along with Rhaegar’s own indiscretion and infidelity in running off with her and abandoning Elia. Yet the events that had recently transpired added yet another reason to despise him to their lengthy list.

Several small council meetings had been held over the course of a moon, each beginning with the intentions of remedying the problems of the realm. Yet every man nearly seemed too craven to offer any real solutions; today’s meeting was no different. Every man drank anxiously from their goblets, tapped the table with their fingers, and coughed to fill the silence. It was a weak small council, but not a mindless one; Rhaegar could sense that each had an opinion they wished to share, but none the temerity to share it- at least, not before him.

Rhaegar’s eyes scanned across each man, wondering if any of them would quit their vows of silence and speak up.

“Very well, then,” Rhaegar said, rising to his feet. “If my party of advisors does not wish to advise me, then you may all be dismissed.”

Mace Tyrell is the only one to stand; when he finds the men around him still seated, he looked quite alarmed, and quite embarrassed. He sits back down in all swiftness, clearing his throat as if nothing had occurred.

“You are all still here,” Rhaegar says flatly, looking to each man. “Then you must have something to say.”

“I shall speak, your grace,” Doran Martell announced in his slow, wise drawl. Rhaegar lowers himself back in his seat to stare at Doran, chin in his hands. Looking upon him now, a man who was once a goodbrother, was a strange feeling indeed. Despite that kinship, Doran spoke with no softness or light. “There are houses throughout the realm that are displeased with your marriage, as you surely know. Dorne’s houses are no exception.”

“How strange. I’d imagine that Dorne would be pleased that I’ve married a queen that the realm deserves,” Rhaegar said, trying to swallow his venom. His temper had been short ever since his return to kingship. He felt it bubble up already.

“Polygamy has been banned by the Faith. Dorne follows the Faith,” Doran said with no frivolities, which might have pleased Rhaegar had it not been information he had already been aware of.

“And yet the High Septon has blessed my second marriage, despite that,” Rhaegar informed him curtly.

“And if he had not blessed it? Then what would you have done, your grace?” Rhaegar takes pause at the question, unsure of an answer. Doran does it for him. “You would have unseated him, surely, and forced the Most Devout to find you a septon who would agree to your faithless marriage.”

“My daughter is a party in that faithless marriage, Lord Doran,” Tywin’s cold voice reminds the aged lord. “I suggest you mind your words.”

“No, my lord, let him speak,” Rhaegar says to Tywin while still looking to Doran. “Perhaps you’re right, Lord Doran. Perhaps I would have found myself a new High Septon. I need heirs, my lord. There is little I will not do for it.” Three heads of a dragon were needed- not one. “Gods forbid that something happen to my son, who I pray daily is safe in the North, but you surely know that terrible things have happened to princes in ages past. You have seen the burnt body of my first son- Elia’s and mine own.” The memory forced bile up his throat; he had been so small, his infant boy, so fragile. He had looked just like him when he was alive: silver hair, purple eyes, fair skin. When he was dumped into his arms as a corpse, not a single one of those features had been apparent. It was as if he had never been human at all. “May the gods bless your three children with long life, but I have not been as lucky as you. The Queen Lyanna is unable to bear me another child. Do I not reserve the right to children, my lord?” He knows by know that his rage had already seeped into his speech, but he could little to control it. He was burning inside for all that has come upon him; he was sick to death of niceties.

“You have that right,” Doran says evenly, not deterred by his exasperation. “You also had the right to dissolve your marriage to the Queen Lyanna, but you did not do so.”

Rhaegar is taken aback by his words. He had given little thought to Lyanna since she had departed, as wrapped up as he had been in his duties to Cersei and the realm. Her mention does not soften him, however, but emboldens him, enraging him a little further. “I have a child by your queen, Lord Doran, and many years between us. To cast her off would be a greater injustice than to marry alongside her.” She had begged him to release her from their vows of marriage but he had refused her; he wanted her still, to at the very least to see her and speak to her. She had always feared being alone; to send her away permanently would be a cruelty he would never dare to inflict.

“I daresay that I disagree. If you dissolved your marriage to her, there would be no need to cast her off.”

There is a silence in the room, as Doran’s words sunk into everybody’s minds. _No need?_ Rhaegar mused inwardly, his brows furrowed. _Is he…?_

“Are you implying that I take her as a mistress, Lord Doran?” Rhaegar asks through gritted teeth as a heat crawls up his neck. Doran remains silent, and still as stone.

“A mistress is more acceptable than a second queen, your grace,” Pycelle utters in his worn voice. No one else offers any feedback; even Varys, the spider with all his backhanded comments did not say a single word.

“Our son will ascend the throne one day,” Rhaegar says with much effort, trying to keep his voice even. “Is he meant to be a king with a whore for a mother?”

“The realm had thought him a bastard when he came to King’s Landing. It wasn’t until your marriage in the sept that he was recognized as legitimate,” Doran says with icy calm. His words were not ones that aimed to insult, but he could hear very well what he was saying. In his eyes and many others, Lyanna had already been a mistress once; she had not become queen until she was crowned in King’s Landing.

“You may ask Sers Arthur, Gerold, or Oswell about his legitimacy, and of the queen’s length of rule; you will find it a year longer than any of the books will write. She was my wife when she arrived in King’s Landing, and my son a trueborn heir. She was not a mistress, and he was not a bastard.” _Not then, not ever,_ Rhaegar wanted to add.

“Was there a septon present, Ser Arthur?” Doran asks him, his fellow Dornishmen. A shadow passes over the knight’s dark face, and something like betrayal was felt in Rhaegar’s bones.

“No, my lord,” Arthur answers. His voice was not one usually heard in small council meetings, unless it was to bolster Rhaegar’s words. He never spoke against him until it was private. Now, it seemed not so.

“Was it done in the Faith of the Seven at all?”

“No, my lord.” Arthur’s eyes do not meet Rhaegar’s, but they do not meet Doran’s either; they are off in some unknown distance, speaking to some unknown person.

“Is a marriage by the old gods any less valid than one by the new?” Rhaegar asks aloud, though it seemed not to be directed at anyone.

“No, your grace, but it is not tradition,” Pycelle reminds him. His weathered voice began to grate on Rhaegar’s nerves.

“Then I have broken tradition. Not once, but twice,” Rhaegar says with finality. “I have wed two queens, whose children will be princes and princesses. There is little to be done to change that.”

“If it is peace with the realm you seek, a marriage must be dissolved,” Doran urges again, a dim fire building in him. “If you cannot be rid of your first queen, be rid of the second. Take her to mistress and legitimize her children.”

“The matter of paramours may be commonplace in Dorne, Lord Doran, but this is not Dorne,” Tywin says coldly to the man across the table from him. He looks to the lord now with a glare that could melt the skin off bones; yet something in that frightening look reminded him of Cersei, though he had never seen her anything less than delighted. “My daughter is not a common woman, nor is she a lady of slight nobility. She is of House Lannister; do not presume that she would stoop so low as a mistress.”

“Do not fear, my lord,” Rhaegar assures his goodfather with the fire gone from his voice. “I would not disgrace your daughter so.”

“The answer is clear, then,” Doran says with firmness, laying his hands flat on the table. “Your grace, I mean neither you nor the queen any disrespect, but she is the most reasonable choice for dissolution of your vows.” Rhaegar’s jaw sets, but he allows him to continue. “You know very well that the queen is disliked. She has proven herself incapable of bearing any more children. She holds no real purpose at court, not that a better and more dutiful woman has come and taken her place. She may be of a Great House, but her father is dead, and her brothers have their own duties. I urge you, release her from her vows, your grace. Little consequence will come of it.”

Rhaegar mulls over his words for longer than a moment. _Release her?_ Rhaegar muses inwardly. What Doran was saying made sense, but it felt wrong. She had suffered much for him over the years; to wash his hands of her and demote her to a mere mistress was an injustice she did not deserve. _How can I?_

“There are whispers that the Faith Militant are reforming,” Doran continues. “The affections you hold for her still are not worth a war, your grace. Not a second one.”

With those words, Rhaegar loses any hold on his temper. His anger summits, heat moving up his body like a dragon with a mouthful of fire. “That war was not one of mere affections!” he exclaims with more volume than he had intended. The room immediately went silent, each man as still as a stone. Rhaegar took a moment to exhale, leveling his temper, before he continued speaking. “Did none of you find it strange that Lord Rickard Stark had betrothed two of his children to those of Great Houses? That he chose Lord Hoster Tully’s daughter and Lord Robert Baratheon as mates for his children?” He spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes paying equal attention to each man at the table. “Lords of the Seven Kingdoms bound their children to nobles who live within their holds- not to another kingdom. You lords who are married can surely attest to this.” He fixes Mace, Tywin, and Doran with a look. “Jon Arryn had no children to betroth, but he had two boys living with him at the Vale: Lords Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. By the time the Tourney of Harrenhal was held, Lords Rickard Stark, Hoster Tully, and Jon Arryn had formed what can only be described as an alliance. They saw my father’s weakening mind and the injustices he inflicted on those who lived within his realm. They had fought in battles before, and it seemed that they aimed to do so again.” He remembered his distress when he had placed all the pieces together. The betrothals had seemed an act of rebellion in itself, as there was no real reason that one Great House would bind itself to another except for war. And war required allies.

“When I took the Lady Lyanna, with her consent, it was not out of mere affection. I did not foresee many of the consequences, and many good men died, but I knew my goal. I knew to let Robert Baratheon tire himself out in war, then meet him as close to King's Landing as I would allow. And I killed him. I knew that once I returned to King's Landing, I would usurp the throne from my father- even if it meant killing him. They could call me kinslayer and kingslayer for years to come; I did not want him in power any longer. Had it not been for wildfire, then that is surely what they would call me now.” Rhaegar exhaled, and then leaned back his chair, suddenly feeling very tired. “Those lords would not have supported me on the throne. By quickening the arrival of war, I hurt them. They did not gather all the armies they would have liked. They did not make all the allies they would have liked. And perhaps that is why I sit here before you, and not Robert Baratheon.”

The silence continued, but it was not suffocating. It comforted him, soothing his wild nerves. He did not like to get angry, and argument was something he preferred to avoid. When either occurred, Rhaegar quickly fell tired. He was exhausted now.

“I think our king should be able to do what he likes,” Jon grunts beside him, ever the sentinel. “If anyone wishes speak against him or be as bold as to rebel, then they have the honor of suffering the king’s justice.”

“Our army is a good one, and large,” Gerold adds. “The number of men that his grace had recruited for the Trident has grown five-fold, and they are all trained men. His grace has gone to oversee their training more than once. If it comes to battle, we shall be more than ready.”

“I stand by our king’s decision, whatever it may be,” Tywin says in his strong, cold voice. “He has proven himself to be wise.”

“Aye,” was all Mace would choke out.

The support was appreciated, but not comforting. He felt Doran’s black eyes boring into him, and Rhaegar had no doubt that his thin lips were pressed into a tight, defiant line.

“That should be all for today, my lords,” Rhaegar said, getting to his feet. “You are all dismissed.” The men rise, each leaving with a bow before they shuffled out of the room one by one. Three men remained: Jon, Arthur, and Doran. He still sat in his seat, looking at a spot on a table. Rhaegar sensed he had something to say, and awaited it in cool calm.

“War?” The word falls with from older man’s lips with a dry chuckle. “That is what it must come to?”

“It may,” Rhaegar says. “It may not.”

“Would you have gone so far for my sister? Fight to keep her as your queen?” The questions stun Rhaegar into silence; he could only watch the Dornish lord in shock. “You left her here, in this red castle of cold stone, as you hid another woman away in her homeland, where no battles were fought. When Robert Baratheon neared King’s Landing, your mother and brother were sent to Dragonstone, but she remained. What did she do to deserve your coldness? What has the Lady Lyanna given to you that she did not?”

“Watch your words,” Jon growls beside him, but Rhaegar could hardly hear him. It was as if his head were underwater, and every word sounded a thousand miles away. “He is your king. He deserves your respect. As for your sister, she was never worthy of Rhaegar, so damn sickly as-”

In a trice, Jon was thrown out of his field of vision, extracting from him a noisy yelp. Rhaegar’s eyes jumped to his side, spotting Arthur’s white back partially obscuring Jon from view. Arthur had him pressed up against the wall, his hands clutching at the front of his shirt, nearly pulling him off the ground. Rhaegar could not see Arthur’s face, but his voice had offered hints as to its visage. “Take that back!” The knight bellowed, his large voice filling the room. “Not worthy? Not _worthy_? You speak of worth as if you have some!” Rhaegar had never heard his friend so incensed, as it was entirely unlike him. Arthur was calm, unchanging, with not a drop of fire in him.

“Arthur, let him go,” Rhaegar commanded, taking a single step toward them. But his words went unheeded, as Arthur did not move an inch.

“Ser Arthur, let the man go,” Doran says. Arthur obeys almost immediately, releasing Jon before walking back over to his seat, his face a contorted mask of rage. Rhaegar blinked, his jaw nearly dropping. Arthur did not disobey his commands. Arthur did not take commands from others, either. “I do not understand your loyalties, your grace,” Doran says to Rhaegar now, who was still fairly shocked. “You claim you did not take the Stark girl out of affection, yet you were kind enough to keep her from harm. She gives you but one child, is a poor queen, and is an oathbreaker for deposing her betrothal. Yet you fight for her with more fire and blood than you ever did for Elia. What has she done that Elia had not done better, and with more grace?”

“Your comparisons upset me, Lord Doran,” Rhaegar replies with a shake of his head, trying to toss his previous worry from his head. “I did not predict her end. If I had known, Lord Doran, she would still be by my side today, and I would have two children more.”

“Whether you lacked the knowledge or not is not the concern. It is your complete absence of precaution. No castle was safe if your father was in it.” Doran rises to his feet. “Dorne will never give you peace. It will rile your kingdom and glare at your shortcomings until Elia’s memory is given justice.”

“I held her body amongst the ashes,” Rhaegar returns, gritting his teeth at the memory. “I wept for our children. I woke up morning after morning wishing her back. I miss her council. I miss her wit. I miss her grace.” _And I found none of it in Lyanna,_ he said to himself, but not with harshness. Lyanna offered him other things that he cherished and adored. But Elia’s death meant the end of characteristics he had grown terribly fond of, characteristics he could not find in anyone else as gently arranged as hers had been. “I mourned her,” Rhaegar choked before he closed his eyes.

“You mourned her too late,” Doran says cryptically. “I recall a man of your ancestry who held multiple wives, and who fought with the Faith. I wonder if you two shall share more than just blood.”

“Do you liken me to Maegor the Cruel, my lord?” Rhaegar asks, his voice soft, unable to carry an edge any longer.

“I liken you to a king, your grace,” Doran replies curtly. “It is up to you to decide which one.”

Rhaegar watched his back, clothed in red, as he walked out of the room, his footsteps being the only sound that filled it. With the creak of a door, and its closing, all went silent again.

The remaining men did not move. Jon was red-faced, a color nearly as bold as his hair, as he scowled and looked away from the rest. Arthur was cool, his face like that of a statue’s with unchanging, perpetual calm, but there is a pain in his dark eyes, swirling like a sea attacked by a storm.

Rhaegar wondered how he looked. All he knew is that he felt guilt, and regret, and something stronger: a longing.

He thought of Elia, and what drew him to her. She had possessed the sharpest mind he’d even seen in a woman; her eyes were like cut emeralds, able to slice cleanly at his chest to reveal the contents of his beating heart. Little went unnoticed by the woman as her quiet intelligence calculated and concluded. He grew fond of her just for that, but it was perhaps in that ability to strip him of all facades that frightened him too, urging him to keep himself from growing too attached.

His mind began to build an image of her, something it hadn’t done in a very long time. Yet, Rhaegar recalled Elia's form easily; for her it had been olive skin stretched tight over bone, a figure so thin it had been a cause for alarm more than once. The shape of her bones were apparent at her shoulders, elbows, hips and torso. There were nights that he had held her slight form to him as she shivered in her sleep, and Rhaegar would run his fingers over her ribs, counting each bump and wondering if it were normal to be able to feel so many. Because of her visible frailty, Rhaegar had spent most of his nights in her chambers only to warm her bed. But when they did lie with the each other, it was out of passion, as both were still humans with regular appetites; but Rhaegar had always to remind himself to be gentle, not to press too hard or put his weight on her. Yet despite his caution, bruises would still bloom on her dark skin, leaving Rhaegar embarrassed and weary of the next time, despite her insistences that he did not hurt her.

She had always behaved so, trying her best to shift his burdens off his shoulders, or to, at the very least, share them. _It is not your fault, Rhaegar,_ she would say so often to him. _You are only mortal. Do not trouble yourself, please._ But her eyes would pierce him, reminding him that she knew his failings and his flaws. They were not like Cersei’s eyes, who looked upon him as if he were a god, incapable of doing wrong. But it was Elia’s green eyes he saw now, boring into him, reading the depths of his heart like words on a page.

Rhaegar saw what her eyes saw, and it shamed him.

* * *

Cersei had asked him if he would give her a tour of the castle.

He found it a strange request, seeing as she already knew the castle well. But he could scarcely deny her, as her beauty seemed to hold a strange power over him, intoxicating him like she was a cup of wine- strong, but not swaying. It seemed her true intentions in the tour was only to spend time with him, which he took as no large matter. It was Sunday, after all, the day with the least amount of duties and dignitaries. A very lazy day for most people, king and queen not excluded.

They had taken a leisurely stroll through the gardens as Rhaegar tried to muster up the names of some of the flowers. He had ordered plenty for his mother, and thus learned them through that channel alone. The walk took them back to the Red Keep, where Rhaegar prattled on about the history of the Iron Throne, all things she undoubtedly has heard before. She was polite enough to ask about the dragon skulls above the throne.

“Are they real?” she asked with a bit of skepticism.

“Quite real. I’m sure if you get too close, they’ll snap at you.”

She smiled and giggled prettily, her voice the softest chime of bell. He led her around the various halls, to Maegor’s Holdfast, where they lingered only in the Queen’s Ballroom before moving on. When they found themselves near the Tower of the Hand, they decided to pay it a visit.

Rhaegar held the door open for her to let her into the bottom floor, where the Small Hall was located. It was a grand room, large enough to seat a formidable company of soldiers. Its was tall room too, with a decorated vaulted ceiling and windows that reached the entire length, letting through a soft yellow light through its golden tint, bathing the prepared silverware in a glimmering light.

“It’s beautiful,” Cersei whispered beside him.

“Have you never seen it before?” Rhaegar asked, closing the door. “Not even when your father was hand?” He did recall seeing her around the Red Keep from time to time many years ago, but he knew very well that she did not live at court. She had lived with her mother then, in Casterly Rock.

“Never,” she said with a shake of her head.

“It really is quite grand. As a child, it was always a privilege to be allowed to dine in here.” He was the only child then, and doted upon by his mother more so than his father. It was a boyhood short of no luxuries, but to dine in the Small Hall was always an exciting thing.

“It’s not as large as your audience hall, though,” Cersei notes.

“No, it isn’t,” he says.

His eyes follow her as she steps toward the table. Light poured onto her yellow locks as soon she does, making it shine like beaten gold. She picks up a silver fork, twirling it around between her fingers as she examines it. There was a desire to learn in her that Rhaegar appreciated very much; she did not like to keep anything a mystery, but was always asking questions to quench her curiosity, or to add another entry into her mind’s logbook.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Rhaegar asks, motioning down the hall. She nods, then smiles at him, bounding over to his side to hold his arm. He led her to the spiral staircase that winded up to the top of the tower, the two taking the trip in silence. Once they reach the top, he opens the door for her, leading her into the solar.

It is in tidy condition, with the dust recently cleaned off, and books arranged on the shelves in a meticulous fashion. This was not Jon’s doing, however, as he rarely visited his solar in the Tower of the Hand. He preferred the one that had been provided for him when he first moved to court, far in the west wing.

Cersei does little inspection aside from dragging a fingertip across the edge of the desk, as if checking for dust. She is silhouetted by the light that came through the round window behind the desk, her shapely figure taking form in darkness. His eyes moved from the desk to the door off to the right; a memory seems to swim up from the shadowy depths of his mind, and he is suddenly compelled to go there.

He first walks to Cersei, lightly touching her shoulder. “Come with me,” he says to her, and she nods. He leads her to the door, opening it wide, and was presented with another set of stairs. They follow them up to a room. Inside is a bed with blue sheets embroidered with silver. Aside from that bed, there is little other furnishing- just a nightstand and a rug accompanies the lonely bed. There is a single window, very wide and very tall, hugging the curve of the walls as the sun generously allowed light to pass through the large window.

Cersei steps in front of him, her eyes looking around. “Bedchambers?” she asks with surprise. When she turns her head to look at him, Rhaegar is taken aback. There, as if superimposed on her, was a ghost, appearing so much like-

_Lyanna?_ he nearly says aloud. The apparition walks away from Cersei, taking pause in front of the bed.

“Does Lord Connington sleep here?” Cersei asked, prompting Rhaegar’s eyes to return to her.

“No, he does not,” Rhaegar said listlessly. When he looked back to the bed, Lyanna appeared in the flesh, but as a memory.

It had been nearly a month since her arrival in King’s Landing. The wedding had been put off out of respect for Elia, and to give Rhaegar time to grieve, but it was now meant to take place in a week. It was their second wedding, of course, set before the eyes of the realm instead of the old gods. For today, he would take her on a tour of the castle.

“Does Jon sleep here?” Lyanna asked in her usual informality.

“No, he does not,” Rhaegar replied, and watched with surprise as she threw herself onto the bed.

She lay on her back, a leg pulled up, an arm flung over her forehead, those wild brown curls strewn across the pillows. She wore a dress of grey that day, as she often did. It slipped from her knee, slowly sliding down her thigh and revealing her lovely white flesh. Even from his place in the doorway he could see the freckles dashed across her little nose, illuminated by the light as the palest brown dots adorning her charming face.

“I don’t think Jon likes me,” she said with the slightest pout.

Rhaegar took a step closer. “Why do you say so?”

“I don’t know,” she replied with a forlorn sigh. Her delicate sighs used to break his heart; it did so now, in this forgotten memory.

“I say you’re wrong,” he said.

“If you say so. You’re always right.”

He didn’t know what set him off then. It might have been that her skirts had fallen completely down her leg, or that the tops of her small breasts had slipped from her bodice, or the way she licked her delicious red lips. Or perhaps it was her eyes, so faraway and honest, coupled with the little beads of sweat on the curve of her thin neck. But then, that may only have been a little part of it. It may have just been the familiar roundedness of the tower, and the heat from the outside being invited in.

It was passion unbridled. He sat down onto the bed, pulling her up into his lap and kissing her as he tugged frantically at the laces of her gown. When he pulled it off of her, ripping a part of the fine fabric, she had already unfastened his doublet, and began to undo the ties on his blouse. In such an impassioned moment, Rhaegar had forgotten everything- the door to the chambers was flung wide open, along with the door to the solar below. At any time, someone could have walked in, stumbled upon them, and told a story for the ages. But all Rhaegar could think of was how terribly he wanted to melt into her, to burn and burn until his love turned into nothing but ashes.

Caution flew to the wind once her chemise had been pulled off. Gods, he loved her, wanted her, and it mattered not if someone saw or heard them. His blouse had been opened but not taken entirely off once he had disrobed her, but it mattered little. He had gone half made with smoldering desire. It was his eager fingers that opened his trousers, not hers as it usually was, and him who pulled her body to his. He remembered not being able to breathe, yet still wanting to kiss her, as she ought to be kissed, not caring if he had to gasp for breath in between. His head was spinning, his pulse pumping stridently, and every time she mewled his name in his ear he found his desire renewed again, along with his stamina.

He did not pull her arms back to pin them to the bed, for it did not matter if he spilled inside her or not, as it was the act of coupling he had desired, not the product. When he was spent, he said her name twice, three times, Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna, all muffled against her supple lips. Afterward he lay on his side, pulling her to his chest only to hold her, to feel her beneath his hands without the urgency of lovemaking.

“Oh, Lyanna,” he had murmured into her hair, so fragrant and tousled. “Oh, Lya, my sweet, my love. Darling Lyanna, fairest Lyanna.” He remembered feeling frustrated then, angry that the Common Tongue did not have enough words to describe her, but glad there she was there to hear them.

“I love you,” was all she would say.

They hadn’t been quick to dress. They held each other like this, murmuring words raw with emotion into each other until the flame was finally snuffed, and the pair unknowingly began to build ice between them.

As the memory ends, Rhaegar’s eyes slip from the bed to Cersei’s back. His pulse had been quickened from the recollection, and he felt a stir in his loins. Perhaps, in an effort to forget Lyanna or in hopes to replace that old remembrance, he reaches out to Cersei, to the laces on the back of her dress.

“I can see why he doesn’t sleep here,” she says, and Rhaegar takes pause. “It’s an ugly little chamber. There’s barely any furniture.”

Rhaegar’s hand falls back to his side. “I suppose you’re right,” he says flatly. He had never thought of the room that way.

“Let’s go visit your mother in the Maidenvault,” she suggest instead, but not without crinkling her nose at the bed before her. She gingerly holds his hand and begins to lead him out of the bedchamber. Rhaegar throws a last look over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of brown curls splayed over the pillows. When none appeared, his chest began to tighten.

Rhaegar could not deny that he longed for the passion that had once filled him to the brim. Rhaegar could not deny that he longed for her. But Rhaegar had duty, and duty came first.

_Shouldn’t it?_

For the briefest moment, Rhaegar wondered what Elia would suggest.


	15. Cersei IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei learns more about Rhaegar, and learns to deceive him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no comeuppance in this chapter... at least not yet.
> 
> and fyi, the end of this chapter is at about three months after Lyanna leaves/Cersei is married.
> 
> enjoy!

The power of a queen was an intoxicating thing to have.

She hadn't truly felt a queen until her coronation, which had taken place two days after her wedding. That day in itself was filled with dizzying bliss; walking with her arm through Rhaegar's, hearing people cheer her name, wearing a gown in a fabric so fine it seemed to kiss her skin at every swooshing step. She had been too happy to eat or drink, which may have been unwise when evening fell and she retired to her new chambers.

It was grand, with an antechamber that had windows to the ceiling, furnished mostly to her taste. She thought back to the memory of breaking fast in Lyanna's antechamber and did not recall it being so beautiful as her own. The bedchambers were even lovelier, already garnished in the red and gold of her house, with fine oak tables and chairs and an armoire larger than her own lady mother's had been, and filled with more clothes too. Myrish rugs adorned the floor, gold and silver gilded every decoration, and jewels of all colors sat on her dresser, gifts from Rhaegar. What mostly caught her eye was relief of a lion and a dragon had been hung over the canopied bed, just above the headboard. Both creatures stood on their haunches, the dragon only a little taller, as their arms intertwined.

Rhaegar had been frustratingly gentle with her, even going so far as to ask if she would lay with him that night; it seemed a pointless question, as she had no choice anyway as his lady wife, but when she said yes it was an answer straight from the heart. She had waited long for this moment; nothing would keep her from it. He had undone her hair first, his practiced fingers finding the pins that held it up until her golden tresses fell in waves over her shoulders. He then unlaced her gown with genteel sluggishness, moving it off her shoulders so that it fell to the ground. The feeling of his fingers, so long and calloused, on her soft skin had quickened her pulse. When her smallclothes were discarded, along with his own clothes, Cersei thought she might faint, and she had wished she had eaten beforehand.

His body was more beautiful bare, that lithe, strong form taking her breath away. When he touched her again, to pull her to his chest and into a kiss, Cersei was already wet. She could think of no time where a keener pleasure had taken place then when he laid her down on the soft bed, his warrior's body digging into hers with each push of his hips. The sounds that had filled their chambers were only the softest ones, as Rhaegar did little more than breathe, and Cersei bit back her louder moans. She had fallen over the edge of her pleasure early, then once more before he was spent, spilling himself inside her, but not before he whispered a name into her hair: "Cersei".

Her name had never sounded sweeter on any another lips.

It seemed almost a sin to have left the bed the next morning. She had woken up before him, still wrapped in his arms, as he slept, seeming like something out of a painting, so beautiful and still as he was. When her memory strayed to the night before, her cheeks burned, for the idea that she had laid with a man so perfect seemed nearly absurd to her, as if any moment she would fall out of a dream and into her old chambers. Yet at the same time, it was not too strange at all. She was always meant to be his, in this way, as husband and wife. It was only that it was stolen from her. It was no matter now; she had stolen it back.

On the second night of their marriage, he went to the wolf bitch's bed. Cersei had spent that night seething, she recalled, livid that he would quit her bed only one day after their wedding. It had taken hours until her boiling temper fell cool, but not without her own form of reassurance. He pitied her, as pathetic as she was. To put his cock in her was the greatest going-away present she could think of. The whore left early the next day. Cersei noted with glee that she was absent from her coronation.

When the High Septon placed her crown upon her head that day, Cersei was filled with a delight so keen that only the gods could have granted her such an emotion, as they surely favored her. When she rose and turned to look upon the audience in the throne room, she found them all kneeling. They were lords and ladies she'd seen daily, some she'd supped with and walked with. All had been her equals just a day ago; now she was greater, grander, more powerful. They would be made to bow as they passed her, learn call her Queen Cersei, not Lady Cersei.

 _I am queen,_ Cersei told herself, a buzz beginning in her toes. _As I was meant to be._

It did not feel true until Rhaegar held her hand, leaning over to kiss her ring, a band of gold with a large ruby in the center, one he had given her. "My queen," he murmured against her skin, before straightening again. A fire stole through Cersei's limbs at his words and the sight of him.

Later that night he murmured it again with his lips on her back. “My queen,” he whispered between kisses that trailed up her spine, and after each time Cersei would breathlessly return,

“Say it again.”

She would feel his heavenly lips curl into a smile as he obeyed, “my queen, my queen”, a chant made for her, to be seared into her flesh with his scorching kisses, to be caressed into her thighs, her hips, with his burning fingertips. “My queen,” he murmured into the back of her neck before he filled her, and Cersei would cry out with joy.

Their “honeymoon” had lasted no more than a week long, though Cersei had wished it would last forever. For an entire week she blushed under his ardent gaze, kissed his hungry lips, and received his attentions without having once to leave his side. The gentility from their wedding night had still remained, but a fiery passion coupled itself with it, complementing their heated embraces and leaving Cersei breathless and curling her toes in pleasure. There was nothing greater than to hear her name on his lips each time he was spent, and nothing that pleased her more than his name on hers.

When they returned to their courtly duties, it was like waking from a dream. The rosy haze had turned glaringly sharp as she was forced to spend time away from Rhaegar. Cersei caught few glimpses of him throughout each day, though she almost always supped with them. They were hardly ever alone, however. There were always people sharing their table, ambassadors and small councilmen, all of whom had something to say to him in private or otherwise. These supper audiences increased until she found herself hardly supping with Rhaegar, and only seeing him at night, when he fell into bed disgruntled and exhausted. She would reach for him with intent to please, but he would only kiss her palm and bid her good night.

 _Is it supposed to be like this?_ she asked with her eyes on the crimson canopy of her golden bed. _Is this what marrying a king is like?_ Cersei thought back to her drawing, the one she drew when she was but a girl and expecting to marry him. It was her arms wrapped around his middle as they flew in the skies on a dragon. There was no dragon, which she had always known, but excitement was absent from their union. It faded as soon as they fell into their duties, which Rhaegar took very seriously. She hadn't known just how dedicated he was. The kingdom had always been at peace with him on the throne, save for Dorne, but Dornishmen were always difficult. It was not until she wed him did she realize how duty ruled him so, driving him to work tirelessly in service to the kingdom. As admirable as that was, it meant her own happiness was sacrificed.

A little over a moon into her marriage, Cersei aimed to address the problem. She did not wish for them to drift apart so soon; they had only just begun their reign together, and she had sworn to herself and Jaime that she would make him love her.

The door opened, and her king entered. Cersei found herself smiling already, glad to see him. He walked straight to her, kissing her briefly on the mouth before attending to undressing himself. Cersei jumps to her feet, removing his hands from his doublet to unfasten it herself.

"How was your day today?" Rhaegar asked, putting his hands on her waist.

"Fair, I suppose," Cersei answers, still smiling. His hands felt so warm. "How about your own?"

"Fair," Rhaegar returns before pressing his lips into a tight line. She quickly realized that all was not well; but before she could inquire he cut her off with a question of his own. "Did you do very much today?"

"No, not at all. It was lovely," Cersei answered. Lovely was not quite the word for it, for Cersei had spent her day in the gardens with the insufferable ladies of the court, each one more insipid than the last. One had recently become with child and was tittering about it as if she were the first woman to do so. Cersei sat through that endless conversation with a tight smile.

"That is good to hear," Rhaegar says with a relieved sigh. He shrugs his blouse off his sculpted chest, setting it carefully over the back of a chair. He runs a hand through his luxurious hair; it was truly the most beautiful hair she had ever seen or touched, more beautiful than her mother's even. Though he usually wore it long, she was glad to see that he had shorn it for their wedding. His pale tresses only just brushed his shoulders now. She preferred it that way.

"You are late to come to me today," Cersei croons in a low whisper. Her fingers danced down his smooth cheek before sliding along his jaw. A regal jaw, it was, so well suited to his regal face.

"My apologies," he says with the slightest smile. "I found myself lingering in Jon's room as if to go see him. Habit, I suppose."

Cersei feels ill at those words, at the name he dared to utter. It was an unpleasant reminder of his past, and of its glaring break with the present, _their_ present. It was natural to miss one's son, she supposed, but it was not her son. She wanted nothing to do with him.

She does not let her distaste show; she gives a smile and a slight tilt of her head. "It is no matter now. You are here." She leans in for a kiss, which he eagerly returns. To tease him, she pulls away once his tongue licks her lips, and then walks back to the bed, slipping in between the sheets to await him. But he doesn't come to bed; he instead turns to sit at the writing desk beside the bed, pulling a fresh sheet of paper. Cersei could only see the sinewy muscles of his back as he wrote, but quickly grew disgruntled and impatient.

"What are you writing?" she asks in all sweetness, however false.

"A letter," Rhaegar replies helpfully.

"To whom?"

“I will come to bed in a moment, my lady,” Rhaegar says, not answering her question. Cersei furrowed her brows. She did not like to be pushed aside so coldly.

"The letter may wait, my lord," Cersei purrs sweetly, hoping to coax him. "Come to bed."

"It will only be a few minutes," he replies curtly, not sensing her rage.

"That is too long a wait. Come to me now."

She sees him take pause, the feather of his pen stilled. “This letter is one of great importance,” he says in an even but impatient voice. “You must wait.”

“Won’t you tell me what the matter is, then?” Cersei asked, slipping out of bed. She made her way to Rhaegar’s side, and then sunk to her knees to look up at him. “If I am your lady wife and your queen, then all I ask is to know what is on your mind, as it is surely on matters of your kingdom.” Rhaegar reaches out to her, his hand smoothing her cheek. She leans into his touch, starving for his warmth.

“Do you truly wish to know?” he asks, eyes flashing with warning, and something else- something like disbelief.

“Yes,” Cersei breathed, nodding slightly.

“There is unrest in the kingdom. Not many have taken kindly to our marriage.” She widens her eyes, the words surprising her. He smiles instead, though it is only a soft smile, and very sad. “It is no fault of your own, sweet Cersei. It is all mine.”

“Why?” Cersei asked, genuinely confused. It was only a marriage. Plenty happened everyday, all less important than her own.

“You know very well that taking a second wife does not sit well with the Faith,” Rhaegar explained, still smiling. “Nor does it sit well with the people.”

“You are king,” she insists fiercely, the words bursting out of her mouth. There was heat on her neck, encouraging the flames of her anger. “You may do what you want. What right do they have to complain?” A king was to be respected, adored, and above all, obeyed. Power meant doing what you wanted; Cersei had known this fact ever since she was a child.

“They have every right, my lady, as they are still mortals with minds and mouths.” His words suddenly struck Cersei as meek. It was known that Rhaegar ran a good kingdom, as his rule was strong and indisputable, but she had not expected temperance when it came to striking down his enemies. Cersei believed in a quick execution to solve her problems.

“You must silence that opposition,” Cersei tells him, her eyes meeting his in the dim light. “Marriage is your choice. The Faith has no right to deny you that.”

“They haven’t,” he reminds her. “But it sits ill with them all the same.”

“Then have them praise it instead, or let them choke on their anger,” Cersei returns. She pulls his hand from her cheek to her breast. She felt mad all of sudden, as if lightning was thrumming throughout her and she wanted Rhaegar to feel it, to share it. She wanted his eyes to light up and for his smiles to be full and his passion heady. She wanted him to be fearsome and awe-inspiring, for the realm to kiss his feet. Cersei wanted to be the woman to give him this might, to turn him able to chasten small folk and nobles alike with mere words. _His first two queens had stifled him,_ Cersei told herself. Elia was too weak and Lyanna was too harsh. _I want to be perfect for him._

Rhaegar blinked at her, but neither surprise nor disapproval flashed into his eyes. “It is not so simple,” he said, pulling his hand from her breast. He rose to his feet, towering over her like a tall, young tree. “There are other things to consider,” he added under his breath, only just loud enough for her to hear. Then he bent down and gathered her into his arms, which Cersei yielded to immediately. He took her to their bed, but moved as if to return to his desk once he laid her down. Cersei gripped his arm, forbidding him leave.

“Do you trust me?” she asked him with sudden savageness, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Of course,” he mumbled, before repeating in a firmer voice. “Of course.”

“Then let me help you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“You are,” he told her before kissing her lips, and pulling away.

Cersei watched the muscles in his back flutter and move before she drifted off to a difficult sleep.

* * *

“Are you with child yet?”

Her father’s cold eyes fixed her with their usual indifference. Cersei blushed at the question, though more out of anger than embarrassment. Her temper had been terribly short as of late, and she found herself less and less patient with the insipid ladies at the court, and even more so with the men who occupied her husband’s time. She found herself snapping at her handmaidens for the slightest mistakes, cursing their incompetence and threatening termination. When she complained of them to Rhaegar, he had only said, “Do what you deem necessary, my sweet.” It was no answer at all.

“Not yet, father,” Cersei replied through gritted teeth. Not even Rhaegar had pressured her on the matter. Surely, any day now, her moon’s blood will fail to come and she will know.

“He is in your bed every night, is he not?” Tywin asked, tapping his fingers on his desk, tap tap tap. “It’s been over two moons now.”

“I do not think I want to have this discussion with you,” Cersei returned sharply, her eyes shooting daggers into her severe father. She immediately regrets her words as her father arches a brow, and his upper lip curls into a chilling sneer.

“Have you become better than me now that you are queen?” He asks, his words sending a humbling chill down her spine. She found she could no longer meet his unflinching gaze, and lowered her eyes to her lap. It did not help. “Then perhaps I shan’t share with you the information I had learned about your lord husband, since I am so base.”

Her eyes shoot up again, widening in curiosity. “Rhaegar?” she says his name with trembling ardor, her mouth filling with the sweetest taste. “What of him?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, your grace?” Her father continues with scathing humor. “You wouldn’t wish to hear them from the mouth of one so far below you.”

“I did not mean it, father,” Cersei says quickly, reaching out to cover his hand. He pulls it away, but continues to stare that belittling stare, crushing her until she was no more than a child again. “My apologies, lord father.”

Her father’s eyes flashed not with forgiveness but with warning. After a pause, one he must have known would dig into her like a knife, he speaks. “Our king wishes to make peace with his people and the Faith. He has been offered a solution.” Cersei leans in closer. “To lower one wife to mistress.”

“Not me, I’m sure?” were the words that tumble out of her mouth before she has a chance to mull over what has been said. _There could be no way that it is me,_ Cersei tells herself feverishly. _I am better. I am more beautiful. I will give him a child._

“For the moment, it is neither of you,” Tywin tells her with an amused chuckle. “For as long as she is away, he will not make his decision, nor will the people rise. We must make it so that she remains in the North.” Casually, he pulls a piece of paper from his desk, and then takes a pen into his hand. “You have told Jaime our desire?”

Cersei swallowed hard at his mention. She had nary spared a thought to her twin, having forced him from her mind completely. They had parted angrily; or rather, only he had. Cersei was dizzy with delight when he last saw her. It would be a lie to say she regretted how their last meeting had ended, as she had not yearned for him once since he left. Cersei had Rhaegar, and that was all that mattered. Now Cersei had to keep Rhaegar.

“I told him,” Cersei said in a raspy whisper. Jaime had not liked her proposition then, but surely after his anger had cooled, he had considered. It came from her lips, after all.

“Will he do it?” Tywin asks in his usual skepticism.

“He will,” Cersei insists weakly; she could hardly convince herself that he would, but in her heart of hearts Cersei knew he would do what she asked of him, from an innocent kiss to a slaughter. He loved her too much to deny her anything.

“Jaime has faults,” her father says in an even tone. “Among them is an attachment to his king. I have not ignored the possibility that he would return with the Queen and her bastard with their lifeblood still pumping through them.” He writes on the paper, and for a minute all Cersei could hear was the sound of the pen scratching out words along with the occasional clinking of metal against a glass inkwell. "It is up to you to persuade him to be rid of her."

"Jaime will do it," Cersei insists with more fire than before. "I'll write to him, I'll-"

"Not Jaime. Rhaegar." Tywin pauses his writing to glance up at her. "A woman has her weapons, doesn't she, sweet Cersei?"

Cersei knew these weapons. They were ones every woman came equipped with; most of which unfailingly sway men. They were tears, injury, children, and what she had between her legs. They were sweetness and light for some men and coldness and distance for others. But Rhaegar was not a mere man; surely, he was above such base shows.

"He holds affection for the Stark girl still," her father continues. "It appears she knows her weapons well."

"I want her gone," Cersei hears herself say in a low hiss. "I don't want her or her whelp near him." Cersei thought back to the night before, to Rhaegar’s forlorn mention of his son. The child looked too much like her, stood as too great a reminder. Cersei could handle its floundering mother; it was the boy she wanted gone.

“Then it is your duty to push her from his mind. He could quarter her off someplace else, perhaps not even on castle grounds. The boy would undoubtedly stay in the castle.” Her father smiles dryly. “Which is quite close indeed.”

“I’ve been trying,” Cersei admits, recalling her past attempts to lure him into passion when exhaustion settled in his bones. “It is no easy feat.” She says this with disappointment, and anger. She did not think she could lose to the mindless Northern bitch; she _would_ not lose.

“How so? He fell so easy to girl who was half a child,” Tywin remarks gruffly. “Rhaegar is weak.”

“Rhaegar is gentle,” Cersei insists through gritted teeth, her hands bunching up the fabric in her lap.

“And that is his weakness,” Tywin returns without sparing her a glance. “Too gentle to strike down dissenters, to punish the rebels, to force his justice. Too gentle to be rid of a girl who is only a burden.”

“That is not his way. He does not like violence or cruelty. He is not like you.” Such words might have earned her scorn from a softer man, but not her father. He only smiles.

“Nay, he’s not,” Tywin said. “Jaime had told me of how she would shout at him like some mad savage, too bold to hold her tongue, while your sweet king would bear it without reaction. Had she married Robert Baratheon, as it should have been, he would have surely thrashed her for being so insolent.”

“You were once willing to give me to that man,” Cersei reminded him with a sneer. She hated his mention; her father had refused to gamble that Rhaegar would win, and offered her hand to that brute of a man. Yes, she had been told of how handsome he was, how strong and how beguiling, but he was a notoriously stupid man who loved wine and women to a fault. He was a good match for the vapid Lyanna Stark, but an unappealing one to Cersei, whose prince was still living when her father dealt away her hand.

“Yes, I would have, had he become king. Instead we have a spineless king instead of a stupid one.”

"Because he does not beat his shrieking wife, he is spineless?" Cersei asks with anger, her skin warm. "He had strength before Lyanna. Elia was meek beside him, and he grew bold for it, bold enough to crown her and take her. Now she crushes him. She is the problem, not Rhaegar. He's lost all his strength to her, as wicked as she is, and I shall restore that strength to him." _It is my only dream._

"Then do so," Tywin tells her, setting the pen in the inkwell. "If you wish for him to love you, to forget that silly whore, to put your son on the throne, then turn him against her. You have your weapons; use them."

 _He speaks as if it was so simple,_ Cersei seethes internally. _Rhaegar is too smart a man. But he is a man._

And all men had a weakness.

* * *

She had no clear reason as to her wandering into Rhaegar’s chambers. Perhaps she was looking for something, but what she did not know. It was more likely that she wished to be in what was his very own private place, likely filled with his very own private things.

It was known that Rhaegar rarely perused his chambers, except for perhaps holding audiences in his solar or antechambers. And since he slept most every night in his queens’ bedchambers, his own were notoriously underused. But when Cersei stepped inside, she found it clean, the sheets wrapped tight over his large bed, the wood surfaces free of any dust, and with everything gleaming in the light. It was the sort of bedchambers she liked to see, and no less than what she expected for Rhaegar.

“I’ll have to tell his grace the king that you have come here,” Ser Barristan grumbles behind her in warning. Cersei rolled her eyes at the tired knight; she resented being assigned such an exhaustingly honorable knight, though she knew that Rhaegar meant no harm. It was better than Ser Oswell, who would surely reek of drink, and much greater than having the rowdy Ser Lonmouth.

“Tell him, Ser. I am sure, that with all that troubles him, he’ll be glad to hear that the queen has visited his chambers,” Cersei replies sharply. “Wait for me outside, if you will.”

Ser Barristan makes no sound of protest, but Cersei knows she had angered him. Just as well; she didn’t like him much anyway.

Lights streamed through the windows, softening the black tones scattered throughout the room. There was more black than red, she noticed. The sheets were black, the wood of his armoire was stained black, and in the corner there was a suit of black armor. Red accented all of these, mostly in the form of a three-headed dragon, tempering the darkness, but only by a little. Had it not been for the soft beige tint of the walls, the room might have been a misery.

Cersei steps to the bed, innately drawn to it. It was larger than her own, which was to be expected, and grander too. Rubies were encrusted into the golden frame, winking at her as she walked around them. She dragged a hand over the satin sheets, testing their softness. Then, in an act that could only be described as childish, Cersei lays down on it, pressing her cheek to the large pillows. The featherbed sunk beneath her, and the satin sheets were cool, a pleasant change to the heat around her.

 _I should ask Rhaegar to sleep in here,_ she tells herself. _It’s much more splendid than mine own, and I shall be closer to him._

Moreover, she would have liked to be fucked in it.

She sits up then glances around. There is a nightstand beside the bed, made of that same dark wood. She scoots til she is beside it, and then opens the drawer. In it is an unexpected clutter of odd items: rings, buttons, some loose jewels, string, riding gloves- items with no real connection to each other. For a moment, Cersei thinks that this is Rhaegar’s secret: an inability to organize. But she knows this is not true. She pushes aside some of the mundane objects till she finds a necklace. It is of gold and encrusted with rubies, though there are indentations where some had fallen out, but that it not what draws Cersei’s eye. It is it’s size; the pendant is nearly the size of her palm, and it is crafted in the shape of a rectangle.

Cersei pulls it out, and notices that the metal was dull, having not been polished in too long. Her fingers find a clasp on the side, and with some struggle, it loosens, the pendant opening in her palm. In it is a portrait of a woman, as ravishing as the gods could make them. Her skin is dark, bronzed, and painted without flaw, a canvas for stunning green eyes and long black hair, straight as a pin. Cersei nearly turns green at the sight of her, until she realizes who it was: Elia Martell.

“My poor king,” she hears herself sigh. “Ever so loyal.” Cersei did not feel envy at her husband’s possession of this portrait. Nay, Cersei never could; Elia Martell was dead, and a dead rival was better than a live one.

She puts the portrait back in its place, and then softly shuts the drawer. When he looks around again, her eyes catch a writing desk in the corner, the wood black as a raven’s wings, as was typical of all of Rhaegar’s most frequented rooms. There was one in her bedchambers and one in Lyanna’s; the need to write grasped him often, and it was not always for diplomatic reasons. He had slaved over his desk to produce more than a couple of poems for her, each one more beautiful than the last.

She leaves the bed to step to it. The surface has nothing more than a stack of blank papers, a feathered pen, a candle, a stamp, and an inkwell. Her eyes and hands wander down to the drawers on the side. She opens the first, and finds spare pens with feathers of every color. Kneeling down, she opens the second; she struggles to jar it open, until a crumple of papers is heard and it gives away, opening to reveal page after page of letters, their seals already torn.

The seals bore the head of a direwolf.

Frantically, Cersei grabs one, her hands trembling as she opened it.

 _Dear Rhaegar,_ it read. _Please, do come, I want to see you too. If only for one night. I await you._

It was signed “Lyanna Stark”.

As Cersei pulls letter after letter, she finds them all ending in this manner, until she is surrounded by piles of paper at her legs, each one more tender than last, each one more infuriatingly intimate. By the time her fingers scrape the bottom of the drawer, Cersei thinks of fire. She wants to set fire to them all, to burn these sickening remnants of their love.

 _”He loves that damnable woman,”_ Jaime’s voice chided her in her head.

 _Not anymore,_ Cersei wanted to tell him now.

Her fingers move against her will, tearing the first letter in two. Then the second, then the third, the fourth…

“Cersei?” A voice calls from the doorway, a voice so strong that it could only be Rhaegar’s. Her eyes tilt up to meet his calm ones, that perfect face sculpted into a mask of confusion.

“Rhaegar,” she murmurs, her lips trembling. “Oh, Rhaegar.”

“Those letters…” He walks over, leaning down to pick up a torn one in his hands. “Why would you do this?” he asks, visibly disappointed.

Cersei begins to cry; whether it is true or orchestrated not even she knows. But soon she is gathered up in his arms, pressed to his shoulder like a wailing babe.

“I’m so sad, Rhaegar,” she murmurs into his doublet, staining that black silk with tears, darkening it further.

“Why?” he asks, his hand rubbing circles on her back.

“I can’t stand those letters, I beg you to be rid of them,” she says with savageness that is not all feigned.

“They are only words,” he says softly in response.

“Burn them.” She leans back to meet his eye, finding his face its usual visage of coolness. No emotion flickers across it, and no regret either when he sets her down onto the bed. He finds flint and walks over to the fireplace, hitting the rocks together until a spark jumps onto the logs, beginning a blaze. One by one, Cersei watches as he burns the letters, each one shrinking into ashes, every evidence of love turning into smoke. When he finishes, he looks to her with bored eyes, as if wondering if that was all the needed to satisfy her.

“Does it please you to see them gone?” he asks, walking over to her. He sinks to his knees, reaching for her hands, which no longer tremble.

“Yes,” Cersei replies with a nod of her head.

“They meant quite a lot to me, but I have rid of them for you.” A giddy buzz builds in her body, slinking through her skin, and she smiles, looking down at him with heady glee.

“I have another request,” she says.

“Do speak.”

“I would like to sleep in your bedchambers, your grace.”

He licks his lips, perhaps considering the offer, but allows her that too. “My chambers are yours,” he says.

“I’ve no doubt the babe would like that as well,” Cersei says, pulling a hand from his grasp to press it to her middle.

When he pushed her onto her back to press a hot kiss to her throat, Cersei knew she was just beginning to win.


	16. Arthur I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur was a good knight, just for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter from three POVs before I settled on Arthur... enjoy!

When Arthur stood witness to Rhaegar’s marriage to Cersei Lannister, a rush of memories returned to him paired with only a single thought: _it was all so wrong._

Arthur had never thought that men could be so stupid, so frustratingly amoral that their allegiances would change as often as the moon shifting each night, changing ever so slightly until they were full or hardly there. Arthur found comfort in that there could be one thing that would never change, and that was a king. Rarely were they reborn as new men with new aspirations whether they be good or bad. It was why the notable kings had a word tacked on after their names, that one facet of their personality that had remained throughout their reign: the Cruel, the Fair, the Mad, the Conciliator, the Conqueror, the Blessed. Such words would live on in books when they were all dead and gone, and their crypts and their ashes may always lay claim to a single adjective.

Arthur wondered what they called Rhaegar, or what they would call him. Whether he would be the Kind, the Great, the Beautiful or be known always as the Beloved. Arthur thought not. He felt as if it were to change, and in a fashion that would be none too great for the king.

Those flattering names belonged to an age long past, to a time where Arthur stood by every word Rhaegar spoke, every action he took. He couldn't explain what had drawn him to the silver prince so many years ago.

Yet it was not Rhaegar he would think of now. A memory of Sunspear came into view instead, and of the first time he laid eyes on Elia.

Arthur had been three-and-ten, a squire for her uncle Lewyn. He had been thrust upon the knight, who had not yet become a member of the Kingsguard, as it was custom to send a boy to squire for their liege lord. Arthur had not been set in his desires yet; he was but a boy, and did not wonder about his future and where it may lead. If he was elevated to knight, then fine; if not, he would find something else.

When he first saw her, Elia was but a girl, no older than 10 years of age, but even then she was striking. Her kindness had shone through her dark skin, brightening her complexion and illuminating those lovely, piercing eyes. She seemed to glow as she walked, her light only tempered by that night-black hair, which also shone with a luster so fair. She had enraptured Arthur from the start.

One day, in the water gardens, he had confessed that he found her beautiful. The water in the pools had reflected on her lovely face as she gave the most demure of smiles, one with a grace that adults could barely manage. “Thank you, Lord Arthur,” she said sweetly. Instead of lowering her eyes to the ground in bashfulness, she shocked Arthur by raising them, meeting his gaze unabashed.

“Arthur,” his name tumbled out of his mouth clumsily. “Call me Arthur, princess.”

And Elia shook her head no, but said she would call him “Ser Arthur” instead. When Arthur corrected her by saying he was not yet a knight, only a humble squire, she smiled.

“But you will be a knight,” she told him. “And a true one at that.”

It was then that Arthur decided that he had no choice: he would become a knight. He threw himself into his training, grew tall and broad, took to chivalry and kindness as quickly as drunks took to a good wine. Every swing of his sword, every kind word, every extended hand was for Elia, to be that true knight she predicted he would be. Looking back, Arthur did not know if he enjoyed doing those things. He only knew that he did not want to disappoint that dear princess and to bring truth to her words. Only two short years later, Arthur kneeled before Lewyn as he laid the ceremonial sword upon his right shoulder.

“In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave,” Lewyn’s strong voice called to him.

 _Brave,_ Arthur thought. _Brave for Elia._

“In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.”

_Just, as she would want me to be._

“In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”

_Aye, always, as she would want it._

“In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women.”

_But one in particular._

When he was asked to rise, he looked to Elia before he looked to Lewyn. She smiled serenely at him, that wise girl of two-and-ten, and it looked as if she knew that he took these vows for her. He knew he loved her then, that he would always love her, cherish her, adore her.

"I, Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne, name you Ser Arthur Dayne before the sight of gods and men," the wisened man proclaimed in his mighty voice. Only one word reached his ear: Prince.

Arthur knew he was not worthy of her.

He left Sunspear, became Sword of the Morning, and at eight-and-ten he took a new set of vows, and tried to make it so Elia was forever out of his grasp.

It was in King's Landing he met Rhaegar. Though it was the king he was sworn to, it was his melancholy son that Arthur was prepared to lay his life down for. The earliest memory he had of him was Rhaegar sitting beside his father on a chair beside the Iron Throne, that silvery hair gleaming in the light while those sad sad eyes looked nowhere else but forward. "I want to make a better world," were the first words he said to him. "I want to save everyone.” It was easy to be loyal to someone so heartbreaking, so beautiful, so noble. Even when he spoke of the prophecy, of something he did not understand, Rhaegar amazed him. His voice was so rich and moving, filled with such confidence that Arthur could only agree and lay his sword down for him. He went to Summerhall with him, planned and plotted with him, and Arthur loved him.

When it was announced that Rhaegar would wed Elia, he did not feel a drop of envy. The most wonderful woman paired with the most honorable man, his childhood love and his greatest friend- How could it be any better? Nay, Arthur's loyalty did not waver; if anything it grew stronger, for not only did Elia get the protector she deserved, but Arthur would always be there too, never too far from her. He knew he couldn’t have her. He swore a vow, one he knew that Elia would want him to follow, and all their moments together at King’s Landing never overstepped what was appropriate for a Queen and her knight. Arthur wouldn’t betray Rhaegar in such a way, and Elia would not have wanted him to stray from what was proper and true.

But, _gods_ , did he love that woman! He thought that absence from her would lessen his amour, but it did nothing of the sort. He remembered Ashara, darling Ashara, and how she would prattle on for ages about the princess only because she knew he loved her. He'd never forget how his heart would break whenever she told him of how Elia came down with a cold, or a fever, or was bedridden with fatigue. Yet none of her ailments hurt as much as her efforts, as he heard of how she nearly died giving birth not once, but twice. She was so close to death yet so graceful, still perfect, those green orbs never once betraying those emotions, not when Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark and not when Rhaegar left her altogether. Elia was unbowed, unbent, unbroken, yet Arthur wanted to protect her all the same.

When Arthur saw Rhaegar throw a black cloak over Cersei’s shoulders, he recalled a young Lyanna Stark beneath the red canopy of a heart tree.

He did not blame Lyanna Stark for driving Rhaegar away from Elia. Nay, he hardly could. When he saw her in the godswood, a maid of five-and-ten, Arthur saw not a woman, but a girl. Aye, she had breasts, but they were small, and she had hips, but they were narrow, and when she turned her wide eyes in wonder to Rhaegar, Arthur wanted to step between them, take the girl’s hand, and return her to her bed. He felt guilty when he stood witness to their marriage, and worse when Rhaegar dismissed them so that he may have his time alone with his new bride. It was not just for her, the poor girl who hadn’t the slightest clue about love or men or Rhaegar, but for Elia too. He was enabling Rhaegar’s betrayal by keeping his mouth shut, and that was a betrayal in itself. That night they made for Dorne, his homeland and Elia’s, but much too far away to protect her.

He assured himself that all was well by how happy the girl seemed, how she appeared to be in love and carefree. He liked how she burned with such fire and yearned to be so much more, and in her Arthur found traces of Ashara, and that made the fierce girl that much more likable. But when her brother died by the rope and her father by fire, her bright eyes had changed into eyes he’d seen before, full of sorrow and pain and looking so _trapped_ , like a bird whose wings had been clipped. He grew fond of her for that, for the proof that she was at least a little like Elia, and thus redeemable.

But nothing could be redeemed after what happened to Elia. When he read it in a letter, his head spun, bile rose in his throat, and he was livid, more than he’d ever been. He wanted to cry and shout and tear that damnable tower down, to march to King’s Landing and demand justice from a dead king. When Lyanna was birthing her son, Arthur heard her screams, so agonizing and desperate, but he would not offer comfort. He could not offer comfort.

(He had recalled an old vow when he heard her beg for her brothers while she birthed: _"In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…”_ Arthur had forced it out of his mind.)

So quickly, she became the reason for his despair, that he would never lay his eyes upon his lady love, that her skin would never be warm again. The girl didn’t do anything to his Elia, at least not on purpose, but it was easier to blame a girl whom he hardly knew than the man he believed in more than anything in the world.

His resentment didn’t change the fact that his beloved princess would never grace him with another smile.

But war is war, and men and women die, Arthur knew that. But when he returned to Starfall and found his sister half-mad with grief, endlessly sobbing for a man she loved, for the babe that died in her womb, her last link to him, Arthur knew that this was no ordinary war. More than just villages had been razed to the ground, but hope was as well, along with mirth and dreams. It was then that Arthur understood that one could be alive but dead all the while. A man may breathe and walk and speak, all while remaining hollow inside, as if someone took a knife and whittled his soul down to nothing.

His sister Ashara never smiled anymore. Neither did he.

It was easier to curse the girl who trusted Rhaegar enough to expect him to know what he was doing. It brought him peace to write her off as stupid, as a silly slut, when he knew better. _At least Rhaegar mourned Elia,_ he told himself. _What did the girl ever do for Elia but help to break her heart?_

Somewhere in his heart of hearts, he knew this was a misjudgment. There was no one to blame but Rhaegar, but he wouldn’t blame Rhaegar, he _couldn’t_ , not his closest friend.

But Arthur had lapses. There were times when he saw Elia, almost in a dream but not quite, rather as if she were a ghost in his mind. Her kind smile would warm his skin and tell him that the girl was blameless. There were times when he pitied Lyanna Stark and hated Rhaegar Targaryen, but those times came few and far in between.

He watched as Lyanna departed King’s Landing early in the morning, viewing only her slender back straight atop a brown mare. He went to bed that night with the image burned into his brain.

 _This is wrong, all wrong,_ he told himself as he tossed and turned in his bed. _Nay, now she is being punished. Now she feels as Elia felt, jilted and not fertile enough for her husband,_ was another conflicting thought. _She was just a girl, though, still a girl. Rhaegar wrongs her… But she deserves it._ Night after night he went mad with these words swimming in his head, and he knew that it was sweet Elia, just Elia who put the kind ones in him.

Regardless, he could not forgive Lyanna. The bridge that had once marked them as friends had long been burned beyond repair; he pitied her now, but that was all. His loyalty, however weak now, remained with the king. Arthur Dayne and Lyanna Stark would not be friends again.

Several moons passed from Rhaegar’s wedding, but for not a single night did Elia relent. _Be good, Arthur,_ her voice tells him, so soft and warm in his ear. _You are a true knight._ Arthur wanted to say that he wasn’t, not anymore, but he knew she wouldn’t listen.

Rhaegar found him in the White Sword Tower, in the Round Room. He had been with Gerold mulling over the White Book, as they often did from time to time to be sure that all was accurate within. This was a task Gerold usually did alone, as he always did everything alone, but he did not deny Arthur to look upon him as he did.

Arthur still had the book open to his page long after Gerold left. He could only continue reading and rereading the words that detailed his own history. _This is what I’m leaving behind,_ Arthur told himself, still disbelieving after so many years. It had everything notable he had ever done in it, every last deed and feat. One might get a big head after reading it (as Lonmouth often did), but Arthur looked at these words with a great sense of dissatisfaction.

“I’m glad I’ve found you,” Rhaegar’s steel voice calls from the doorway. Arthur looks to him emotionlessly, his mind still on the book. Rhaegar dressed in his usual splendidness, his silver hair brushing his red silk doublet. His trousers were black and fine as well, and he wore boots of that color as well. “We haven’t spoken in a while. I imagine you’re cross with me.”

“Cross?” Arthur rasps, giving a humorless smile. “Nay, your grace. Never.” This was only partly a lie, and thus not treason.

“That is comforting to hear,” Rhaegar replies, then walks over to his side. “I have come to ask if you would be riding with Lord Doran to Dorne.”

Arthur grimaced. He would have liked to go to Dorne very much, but he hadn’t returned in over a year. He found it difficult to face the men and women of his own homeland, knowing very well that there was more than a few who placed him guilty by his association with Rhaegar. There were many others who thought him honorable just the same. _“He was only doing his job”,_ they would say. _“And what a fine job he’s doing.”_

“I don’t think I will, your grace,” Arthur replies. He did want to leave, but Dorne was not the place to go.

Rhaegar nods. “Just as well. I would prefer you here anyways.” He walks over to his side, his eyes on the White Book. "What does it say in there?"

"Nearly everything," Arthur replies, not being generous with information.

"I can see that is favorable, Ser Arthur, though I expected no less."

Flattery: an old trick that Arthur was sick to death of. Before him was indeed a list of his accomplishments and perhaps it warrants praise, but none of these meant anything to him. "I suppose you're going to say that I ought to be proud," Arthur says flatly.

"There is room for pride in your position," Rhaegar replies.

"I killed the Smiling Knight," Arthur says, pointing to the line that said so. "My sword's named Dawn, passed along the members of my House, and it's heavier than most greatswords. They call me the Sword of the Morning, a name given to only one member of my house.” He mentions a few more of his "accomplishments", but he feels nothing akin to pride. "None of this means anything to me," Arthur confesses, turning somber. "None of this truly matters. When people look back at this they'll see yet another knight loyal to his king. I'm not proud of any of this." What did it all mean? Nothing at all, that's what. He will live and die and all that people will remember is that he killed a madman, once. Arthur was not obsessed with his legacy, but he was not satisfied with the page before him either. It was missing something.

"I've never given you a task where I did not provide you a choice," Rhaegar says firmly in return. "And yet I find it passing odd that you have come to dislike me when I've never forced you into anything."

"It is not you I dislike, your grace," Arthur returns with a frown. "It is the choices I’ve made for you that I despise. Should I get to live this life again, I'd have made very different choices."

"Such as what, Ser Arthur? Would you never have joined the Kingsguard?"

"I don't know," Arthur replies with despair. There were so many vows to take, and so many misconceptions. There was no chivalry, honor, and glory in being a Kingsguard knight. There was only shame, passiveness, and pain. "But if I had, I'd never left King's Landing. If I had stayed this book would read that I saved Princess Elia and her children from wildfire." Damn that lengthy list of meaningless accomplishments, _that_ was all he wanted written on his page: that he saved his beloved Princess no matter the cost.

Lewyn’s wise, firm voice rang in his ear. _”In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”_

"Gods be good, Arthur," Rhaegar sighs. "I swear it's as if you've looked into my dreams. I haven't quit thinking of her lately." Arthur glances over to Rhaegar and sees that this is true. His purple eyes flashed with the sorrow of memories past. "Had she lived, would you have remained kind to Lyanna, and loyal to me?" he asks this as if it were an important question.

"I never quit doing either, your grace," Arthur says solemnly, though he can hardly convince himself. His attachment to Rhaegar had been nothing short of thin lately, just barely hanging on. It was hard to be committed to a man who wronged his first wife and then his second, not when both were largely innocent (gods knew that the first one was, at least).

"You are unsure of yourself," Rhaegar says, peering into his thoughts. "You disapprove of what I do."

"My approval is of no consequence to his highness," Arthur replies mechanically.

"You know that's not true."

His insistence grinds on his aching nerves, and all Arthur can recall was every word of advice he had ever given, each time it was snubbed and he was left to the pick up the pieces. A boiling rage builds in him, and Arthur feels near fit to burst.

"Why me?" Arthur suddenly asks, slamming a hand down on the damnable page in that damnable book. "Why is it me that you look to? Why does anybody look to me?" He thought of Jaime, of his eager eyes and trembling words, all that pent up excitement from merely being around him. "I failed the woman I love and men call me honorable. I sit back and allow you to shame your wives and they call me a great knight. By the gods, Rhaegar, it's enough to make a man go mad!"

Arthur shut his eyes tight. How did Gerold do it? How could he stand detached and unsmiling, not once blinking at the horrors Aerys inflicted on those around him, not once countering what fool words came out of Rhaegar's mouth? The man had never shown an emotion in all the years he had known him, instead always choosing to wear a cool mask of indifference, truly a White Bull.

But then there was Oswell, so wracked with emotion that drink became his only friend. One would pass by his door at night and hear him whimper, whisper, moan, _Lyanna, Lyanna,_ as if he might will her to appear and ease his broken heart. Nothing could mend him: not his loyalties, and certainly not his loves.

Where did Arthur stand on this spectrum? He was not cold like Gerold but he was not as fervent as Oswell. Arthur was stuck somewhere in between, caught between what he loved and what was expected. Not once did what was right appear on this range. Morality was not for Kingsguard knights. They were only expected to obey and perform, regardless of their own thoughts and emotions.

"Do what brings you peace, Ser Arthur," Rhaegar murmurs solemnly beside him.

"I can think of nothing," Arthur admits with unrestrained sorrow. "I cannot make things right any longer. It's too late."

_”In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.”_

_Oh Elia,_ he moans her name in hopes that she'll reappear in his mind again. _You'd not have wanted this. You'd have hated to see this cruelty._ It was always her voice that urged him to be good, to do good within his duties. His position allowed him a great deal of power and he instead squandered it on blind obedience.

_”In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave.”_

“You are a great man, Ser Arthur,” Rhaegar says, his face turned toward the light streaming through the window. “I’ve no doubt that you’ll be remembered as such.”

“Did she think of that of me?” Arthur asks weakly. It was the only question he wanted answered.

“Without a doubt,” Rhaegar replies.

“Then I mustn’t disappoint her.” Arthur closes the book with a mighty slam, and then turns his back on it. “If it is my loyalty you want, then you have it, your grace. It is my love for you that I cannot promise."

“I know I’ve done terrible things,” Rhaegar mumbles, his expressive eyes softening. “But you must understand that I look to you with greater respect than I have ever given any other man.”

“That respect would have been of better use to your wife,” Arthur replies sharply. “And it is the Princess I speak of, not your queens.”

“I respected her,” Rhaegar insists.

“Not enough.” Arthur narrows his eyes. “Had you a mind for your wife as you did your prophecy, I’d imagine there would be less dead men in the ground.”

“You believed in the prophecy,” Rhaegar returns quickly.

“Not as I believed in you.” Arthur turns away, unable to meet his eye. “I believed in your righteousness. I believed in your vision. You have shattered both and used its remains to wage a war.”

“I did not foresee the consequences. You know that.” A weak excuse! Arthur was tired of excuses.

“The books and songs you so love will not remember that,” Arthur reminds him. “They will see a prince, a girl, and many martyrs.” Where did this boldness come from? Arthur was soft-spoken, passive, as a loyal man ought to be. Perhaps he was fed up with all this concealing. Perhaps he hoped to do Elia some justice. “Your prophecy will mean nothing if you die as man without honor.” Rhaegar goes silent, unable to respond. Arthur sighs, and then bows his head, closing his eyes. “You’ve ignored the advice you claim to respect. I cannot stand as a silent witness to your cruelties. Not any longer.”

“It is too late to fix it,” Rhaegar replies solemnly.

“You must try,” Arthur returns, his voice barely a whisper. “If not for me, then for her. Be good, for her.”

Rhaegar does not respond.

Arthur wonders if his words ever meant anything to him at all.


	17. Lyanna V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some discoveries are made at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Enjoy!

“Lyanna,” Catelyn’s voice says softly from beside her. Lyanna blinks, and then turns her bleary gaze to her goodsister. “It seems you left us for a moment.” Catelyn smiles warmly at her, and Lyanna gives a nervous giggle.

“My apologies,” she says, shaking her head. “I was thinking, it seems.” Lyanna did much of that lately. She spent more time inside her own head than with the living, always thinking, always planning. Fear and anticipation and love clashed inside her in heated battle, and Lyanna could only try to push it all back.

“Of what, pray tell?” Catelyn asks, her eyes flitting to the children in the middle of the room before going back to her. Jon and Robb played together, as they always did, blabbing to each other in their simple speech. Sansa sat in the middle of the rug with a doll in each hand, acting out some polite scenario. Her brother’s children were truly beautiful, the spitting image of their lovely mother. Even from their young age, she could tell that they would grow to be handsome, striking creatures that would charm everyone around them. Lyanna looked to her quiet Jon with his dark hair and ivory skin, and wondered if he would be the same when grown.

“Of Jon,” she says solemnly. “Of the babe inside me.” Her hand goes to her still flat middle, perhaps hoping for a sign of the life growing inside her.

“Things will go well this time, Lyanna. I am sure of it.” Her goodsister gives her smile before returning to the paper in between her graceful fingers. It was a letter, it seemed, and its blue wax seal bore the Arryn sigil. No doubt, it was her sister that wrote her, the young one that had wed Jon Arryn. For the strangest reason, Lyanna could not recall the woman’s name for the life of her.

She dragged a finger up and down the spine of the book in her lap, feeling the words that had been filigreed into the leather. _The Languages of Known World_ , it was, and a dreadfully dull read.

She gave a sigh, then slumped back into her seat, grimacing. “Catelyn,” she calls out to the woman beside her. “Are you devout to the Seven?” A strange and mayhaps intrusive question, but it was the first to swim up to her mind, and Lyanna still had the terrible habit of speaking it.

“I am quite committed to the Faith, yes,” Catelyn replies without a hitch. “Enough for Lord Stark to build me a sept.”

Lyanna did not know what was stranger: that Catelyn would not call Ned by his name around her, or that there was a sept on Winterfell’s grounds. It had proven again and again to be a sight odd enough for her to pause in her tracks to look at that modest seven-walled building devoted to the Faith. The North prayed to the Old Gods, after all, and their unconcealed cruelty clashed greatly with the Seven’s agreeable and noble ideals. There was even a septa assigned to Sansa to care for her and teach her the things highborn ladies needed to know. Perhaps if Lyanna had one of her own following her around and chastising her, she might have made for a better queen and wife for Rhaegar.

 _I had Old Nan instead,_ Lyanna tells herself. _And all she taught me was that all knights were gallant and ladies didn’t ride horses._ Both things Lyanna proved to be false.

Ned’s voice could be heard in a hallway nearby, and Lyanna sees how Catelyn’s head whips around to search for him. There was a darling eagerness about her, what with the way color rose prettily to her high cheeks and her pink lips would curl into a pleasant smile. She was an incredibly beautiful woman, much more beautiful than Lyanna, and nearly as striking as Cersei. But of course, that was speaking objectively. Lyanna had seen enough of her dark heart for it to mar her pretty features, making those green eyes look cruel and those flowing golden tresses to look like gilded snakes set to strike.

 _But Rhaegar likes my hair,_ she finds herself insisting. It was damnable how often she thought of him, of the man who betrayed her and brushed her aside with nary a thought. But Lyanna could not be so cruel; his claws still held onto a piece of her heart, perching on it like a dragon and his egg.

But for every amorous thought she had of Rhaegar, dark ones appeared as well. Lyanna found herself unable to sleep as she mulled over memories of the past. With vivid acuity, Lyanna could recall the scent of musk in their room at the Tower of Joy, the salty taste of his sweat after he spent a day out in the burning sun, the feel of the sheets underneath her bare body, and the cold stones of the wall digging into her back as he fucked her against it.

She would recall his scorching kisses and silvery voice, high and clear as he sang her a song in High Valyrian, those long elegant fingers playing a mournful tune on his harp. But what pained her most is when she found the lies weaved into between his actions. All those feigned I love yous that took moons before they turned genuine, all those passionate nights that had initially been nothing more than his chance to have his seed quicken inside her. They used to spend nights where he took her over and over, spilling inside her each time, and by the gods, she’d have been lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it. But many times when she would reach for him in the night with a child already in her belly, he would refuse her with a kiss to her temple and a soft chuckle.

It made her skin crawl to think that she had given so much to a man who had seen her as nothing more than a broodmare. The memories that were once fairylike now appeared to be clouded by malice and ambitions that she did not wish to be a part of.

 _Stupid,_ she says of herself. _Intolerably stupid girl. Look at the mess you’ve made of things._

Lyanna looks back to Catelyn, seeing now that she looked to her letter with a fresh flush to her cheeks that made her seem more comely than before. She finds happiness in her husband; this was plain to see. He was good to her, and he respected her, and he saw her value as a human as well as a woman.

Lyanna struggled to remember the last time she felt so fulfilled with her husband. “I must stop loving him,” she mumbles aloud, her eyes going to Jon smiling widely on the floor. “I cannot love him any longer.”

“Lyanna?” her goodsister inquired beside her.

“I either love my husband or I love my children,” she muses, opening the book in her lap. “In my place, I cannot do both.”

“A mother does what she must,” Catelyn replies cryptically.

* * *

Lyanna folds the letter sent to her and slips it into the drawer of her writing desk.

It was the first Rhaegar had sent her since she had left. It contained nothing notable: How are you? How is Jon? Did you miss the North, or are you wishing you were somewhere warmer? Make sure you sleep and eat well. I want to see you healthy and rested when you return.

It brought a crinkle to her nose to read it. _As if you care,_ is what she wished to write back. But perhaps she could be cruel instead: How is your new wife? Do you fuck her nightly? Make sure you do it often and well, or how else will you get a babe on her?

Lyanna thinks she’ll simply answer his questions and ask him none.

She looks around the room instead, and for may be the hundredth time, she finds herself disbelieving that she was actually here. It was her room, after all, her old one from her girlhood, with not a thing out of place. Her sheets were the same pale blue, the painting of a tranquil forest above her bed was still in its silver frame, her writing desk still had all her worn pens and nearly empty inkwells, and her armoire still carried all her clothes. To wear those Northern dresses of her youth had been quite a delight, especially when she saw that she still fit into them, but few would accommodate her once her belly grew to full size. Catelyn had already had new dresses ordered for her to wear in the coming moons, much to Lyanna’s endless gratitude. She came to quite like her goodsister, and they spent much time together.

Catelyn was more of a sewing and household sort of lady, the type that Lyanna would have scoffed at years ago. But it was undeniable that Catelyn was a true lady who performed her duties with incredible dedication and perfect accuracy. It was an admirable trait, one that no doubt Ned appreciated as well, but it left Lyanna with a measure of envy. She wished she could have been so well-suited to being a lady of the house. Perhaps then, Rhaegar would have…

She leans back in her chair and rests a hand on the small swell of her belly. It had been five whole moons since she left King's Landing, and a bump had appeared as evidence of her last night with Rhaegar. It overjoyed her to see her middle grow, as it meant the babe was growing as well.

She closed her eyes to listen to the silence of the castle. There were some ravens outside her window cawing noisily, in what seemed like a bird version of quarreling lovers. One seemed to be yelling _come back to me_ , while the other was shouting out all its grievances, not caring one moment who may hear. Lyanna felt as if that were something she would do: get on the roof of Winterfell and yell about how terrible everything was, and how awful everything will be. The babe inside had sapped her of much of her fire, calming her instead of electrifying her. She was usually quite passionate and always emotional when she was with child, but this one eased her nerves. She felt no urges of any sort: no maddening need for food, no retching into a chamber pot, and no desire to make love. A sea of calm had washed over her, stilling all that made her wild.

Just as well. She didn’t need to be unpredictable now.

There is a knock on her door, before it creaks open, letting in the light from the hall. Ser Jaime steps in with his scaled armor rattling, and then looks to her. “Lord Stark, your grace,” he announces, before the man in question appears. Ned doesn’t speak until the door closes behind him, but when he does it’s with a grimace.

“I don’t like that he’s here,” he mumbles with a shake of his head. Lyanna can’t help but chuckle.

“He’s not that bad for a Lannister,” Lyanna remarks, rising to greet her brother. “What brings you to my bedchamber at this hour, brother?” She takes her hands in her own and gives a slight squeeze.

Ned hesitates, searching her eyes in the dim light. “I’ve come to ask you a question,” he says with a measure of caution. Lyanna nods slowly, then leads him to her bed, where the two had once spent many nights simply talking to each other. Those times were gone, but perhaps Lyanna could relive it tonight.

“Ask me whatever you wish, dearest brother,” Lyanna tells him, drawing her attention away from the ravens and to Ned instead.

“What will happen to my family when Rhaegar finds out your secret?” Ned asks solemnly. “If I am helping you keep it, then I put them in harm’s way.”

Lyanna’s blood turned cold. Nay, the last she would want is for her brother to suffer for her actions. The fact that he worried about it chilled her; was she not his family too? What of the harm that may come to her? She realizes that these are selfish thoughts, and quickly pushes them out of her head. “No, Ned, no,” she mumbles first, squeezing his fingers. He did have his own family now, greater things to worry about than his troublesome sister. She was no longer a girl exploring the corners of Winterfell, and he was no longer her watchful shadow. Lyanna would simply have to fend for herself, and she did not blame him. “No, do not even think about it. I will not have Rhaegar bring any harm to your or your family. Ser Jaime shall write to Rhaegar when I am too far along to leave, and he will tell him that I am a liar and that I claimed to have written himself myself upon learning of my pregnancy.” Ned’s eyes are still walled, not yet convinced. “If he comes here looking for answers, he will turn to me. If there is someone he will want to punish, it is me; this, I can assure you.” Then she adds, in a stronger voice, “I will do anything to protect you. I promise, Ned.” She wanted so desperately to prove herself to him; by the gods, she had to be the one to be wary of the fates of the people around her. Ned was more than her brother; he was her subject as well, and her actions could ruin him.

His eyes soften, and a hand slips from her grasp to touch the top of her head, a most familiar gesture. “I shall hold you to that, sister,” he says in a kind voice, paired with the slightest of smiles.

“I promise,” Lyanna repeated feverishly before lifting his knuckles to her lips, sealing her vow with a kiss. "I promise." It was one she intended to keep.

* * *

In the coming days, Lyanna finds herself spending less and less time at the castle.

Whenever she could, she would steal away to the godswood, or the wolfswood, or the vast fields outside Winterfell. It felt strange to remain indoors, to hear sounds that were unfamiliar to her girlhood memories: babes laughing and crying, a lack of rowdy men telling bawdy japes, the sound of steel ringing out in the yard. Not even that which was familiar remained the same; servants she recognized would sneer at her, former handmaidens did not spare her a passing glance, and even the kitchen hands who would sneak her sweets as a child did not offer any warmth. It was an unusual feeling, and one she wished to avoid. Thus, she was often away from the castle, and with Ser Jaime instead.

It surprised Lyanna how she came to enjoy her time with Ser Jaime. He had a snarky wit that was fun to parry with, and a tender pride that could be easily bruised with the right words. Seeing him grumble and frown at her affronts brought laughs to her lips that hadn't arisen in moons. But even between the humor, they found times to just enjoy each others' company in silence. When they spoke, no matter how they spoke, it was always proper: she was your grace and he was ser, a queen and a knight. They respected each other, and Lyanna trusted him; not wholly, but tentatively.

Today they rode out to a field outside the walls of Winterfell, one that Lyanna had spent hours playing around in as a child with Benjen at her side. They dismounted so that they may walk, taking slow, thoughtful steps. Jaime walked behind her, as he always did, and she heard the grass crunch underfoot in time with her own feet. Her hand fluttered to rest on the swell of her belly. Though she had spent more than a few nights fretting and losing sleep over the child within her, she was filled only with calm now. The air was cool, the wind was still, and the sky was the palest shade of blue. Familiar sights, all of this.

She paused in her walking, and she heard Jaime do the same. She turned to look at him and offered him a slight smile. "You may walk beside me if you like, Ser Jaime," she tells him.

"You honor me, your grace," he returns with a mischievous smirk, but steps up beside her anyways.

"I would talk to you as I would any other man," she says, walking again. "I'd feel quite silly talking at someone behind me."

"Yes, that would be silly, wouldn't it?"

"I think so."

They walked further, Lyanna finding comfort in the silence, despite the clanging of his armor. Lyanna glances over to him, studying the intricacies of his suit.

She had looked upon it so many times, yet each time it gripped her with awe. It was as white as freshly fallen snow, the palest armor Lyanna had ever seen, with scales cut out of the metal at the shoulders, kneecaps, bracers, and boots. On the breastplate, filigreed in silver, was the likeness of a crown, a symbol of whom they served. For years Lyanna foolishly thought it meant the royal family as a whole; now she knew, and had known for quite some time, that it was a king's crown, not a queen's. Perhaps she should have known by the name, Kingsguard, but wasn't a Queen a part of a King?

She supposed not.

"What metal is your armor made out of?" she hears herself asking the young knight. His eyes glance down to his breast, as if assessing it.

"Steel, I suppose," he replies, blinking. He looks to her with confusion.

"And this is the only suit of Kingsguard armor you have?"

"I've had it refitted a few times, but it is the only and the same." He takes pause, glancing around them. "Why do you ask? Do you plan to join our ranks?"

Lyanna shook her head. "Nay, 'twas just curiosity." She furrows her brows as question pushed past her lips. "Why does it appear untouched if it is only steel?"

"Good steel, I suppose,” he replies, still bemused.

"They say you ran into the flames to save Princess Elia," Lyanna tells him with an arch of her brow. "They also say wildfire can burn through anything. Yet your armor..." She reaches out to touch the breastplate, but he flinches away. Her eyes dart to his face to find it bearing a pained expression, with a secret anguish clashing in his eyes.

"I didn't walk into the flames," Jaime admitted weakly. "I only came very close to them."

"Surely the heat of the fire-"

"I don’t know why," he says impatiently, before turning his face away.

Lyanna understood. She had gotten better at sensing lies and interpreting words since she left King’s Landing, as if a part of her heart would translate fibs into raw truths. "You broke an oath that said to protect your Queen,” Lyanna said aloud with wonder in her voice. Even Rhaegar had told her as much, that he had asked Ser Jaime to care for his wife and children before he left for the Trident. To hear now that he made him promise for nothing… “I don't judge you for this, Ser Jaime. I only ask why,” she says to his turned face.

"The Kingsguard is made up of craven men," Jaime says with a hint of anger. "I am no exception." Lyanna wished to disagree. The knights truly were brave, but only when they listened to themselves.

"Do you enjoy being a Kingsguard knight?" she asks, hoping to lighten the thick air. Yet not even this question sits well with Ser Jaime; he sneers, and then looks to his feet.

“I’d enjoy it more if we weren’t forced to do such terrible things,” Jaime says, still scowling.

“Such as guarding a Queen?” Lyanna returns with a smile, one that Jaime slowly returns.

“There’s one,” he says, then turns his head to the sky.

A short silence passes between them, but it is a comfortable one. Lyanna’s hand goes to her belly again, perhaps hoping to feel the life within her. The babe had yet to start kicking, but she hoped it would soon.

“My father doesn’t like that I’m Kingsguard,” Jaime suddenly says beside her, and Lyanna looks to him to see that his eyes were still fixed skyward. “It was an insult to begin with. Surely, you’ve heard of how Aerys and my lord father quarreled?” Lyanna nodded; it was an infamous tale, and the reason that the Lannisters did not attend the Tourney at Harrenhal; save for Jaime, of course. “As a Kingsguard knight, you take your vows: no children, no women, no lands, no titles, no allegiances but to your king. I can’t become Lord of Casterly Rock, which my lord father would very much like me to be.”

“But you have a younger brother,” Lyanna remembers. “Gods, what was his name?” She furrowed her brows in an effort to remember, but it is Jaime who reminds her.

“Tyrion,” he says hoarsely. “He killed my mother when she birthed him. He’s an imp.”

Yes, Lyanna remembered now. It had been quite the scandal when he was born; the Lady Joanna Lannister was known throughout the kingdom as a strong and able lady, and a great beauty. It was also whispered that Tywin Lannister had loved her fiercely; after her death was when he became so bitter and cruel. But the child, a son, was disfigured, an imp, a freak. Not as a Lannister should be.

“But he is still Lord Tywin’s son,” Lyanna insists in return. “He is still able to be wed and have children, heirs to Casterly Rock.”

“My father knows that,” Jaime replies sharply, frowning again. “It matters not to him. He despises my brother.”

“He would despise his own son? For something that was out of his control?” Lyanna asks, astonished. Mother had died birthing Benjen, but never did her lord father blame her littlest brother for that, nor did he hold any resentment toward him. And had Benjen come out as deformed, he would still be her father’s son, and a Stark. That a parent would act differently seemed absurd to her.

“My lord father is difficult to explain,” Jaime said with a shrug. “It’s easier not to ask why.”

“Do you love your brother?” Lyanna asks, and the question seems to puzzle him. He scratches his chin, as if pondering the inquiry, then looks to her.

“I don’t see him very often. Only when I visit Casterly Rock.” He pauses, still thinking. “He’s very smart- too smart for his own good. He’s great at talking himself out of anything, though. Dupes our steward every time he’s searching for someone to blame for one thing or another.” He looks to her with a smile, one that was brighter and suited to his pretty face. “He once managed to convince everyone that a wild cat had knocked over my father’s prized vase, and that it was still running around the castle. He had every servant driving themselves mad searching for it. Fooled everyone, he did- except for father.”

“He sounds like grand fun,” Lyanna says, smiling too. “Perhaps you should see him more often, as it seems you do love him.”

“Perhaps I should. But first, I must return to King’s Landing,” he says with a sudden intensity. When he meets her eye, Lyanna suddenly grows very somber. His green eyes were warm, and oddly kind despite their roguish glint. Something about them made them think of someone she lost.

“Cersei must be very lucky,” Lyanna hears herself whisper mournfully.

Jaime’s face falls as sudden as storm from bliss to horror. “What?”

 _She has a brother who lives to protect her,_ Lyanna nearly says aloud. Instead, she shakes her head. “It’s nothing,” she says, managing a smile. “How strange we must look, Ser Jaime. A Stark and a Lannister.” Growing bold, she meets his eye again and grins. “Two oathbreakers who love their siblings.”

“Oathbreaker? What oath have you broken?” Jaime asks, baffled.

“The only one I’ve ever broken, but perhaps the most important: my promise to wed Robert,” Lyanna reminds him. What an insignificant infraction it seemed at the time! It was only meant to be a statement, not a rebellion.

Jaime ponders this, but then he smiles. “I suppose you’re right,” he says. “I wonder which one of us the gods despise more?”

“I wonder.”

Lyanna did not weigh the importance of their respective oaths; it mattered not in the end. Once it was broken, one looked no different from the other.

After a little while longer, they rode their horses back to the stables in Winterfell. Jaime had handed off his horse to a stableboy, and had already begun to walk away. Lyanna lingered longer, wanting to tie up the horse herself. It was a good steed, one reminiscent of the one she had as a girl: a strong mare, with hardy galloping legs. As a token of her appreciation, Lyanna would put her away herself.

She led the horse into a stall, and then moved to unclasp the harnesses that bound her. It was a task she enjoyed doing, and the horse was calm enough to let her jostle her a bit as she pulled the reins off. It was then that a stableboy walked up to her, and took the leather from her hands.

“I’ll see to it,” he said gruffly, moving her aside. Lyanna arched a brow, and then set her hands on her hips.

“I’d prefer to do it myself, if you will,” Lyanna tells him indignantly. The boy turned to her with startlingly familiar face: a square jaw, dark brown eyes, and a ruddy complexion. His eyes turned darker still when he looked upon her, and he scowled.

“’Tis you,” he growls, narrowing his eyes.

“If you mean Lyanna Stark, then it is I.” Lyanna kept staring at him, trying to recall his name. Then it came to her as quick as an arrow; ‘twas a boy, now a man, who had worked in their stables for as long as she could remember. What was more was that he had a fondness for her, and had asked to kiss her when she was two and ten. Lyanna had refused him then, and when she told Brandon the boy took care of her horse while sporting a black eye for an entire week. Lyanna had laughed when she had seen him then, causing him to turn beet red. Though he never spoke to her after, she knew he did not hate her for his fate. “Warren— that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Her highness honors me,” he hisses cruelly, though Lyanna does not know why.

“Gods be good, you still work here?” Lyanna asks him, smiling, remembering the lanky boy who blushed so easily.

“Quittin’ soon,” he replied gruffly. “Thanks ta you.”

“Me?” Lyanna asked with furrowed brows.

“Well, since me father and me brothers had died fightin’ for yer House some years back, I’ve got ta be in the smithy all the time now,” he says this with vitriol, his bold eyes never leaving her face. Lyanna feels slighted, small, but she does not interrupt him. “Me ma had done most of it for these years now. But she got me little sister to think about, and smithing ent fer a woman. I’ll lose me pay here, but I can’t stay neither.”

“This is my fault how?” Lyanna asks with a raised chin, defensive.

“When you up ’n left, I tolds me family ‘bout what a good lady you were, worth fighting for.” He bunches the reins in his hands, visibly angry. “Me brothers and me pa went off fighting fer yer brother and didn’t come back, but I said ta me ma that t’would be worth it, to kill a raper and his mad father. Then I find out you been fuckin’ that prince out of your own liking. I called him a raper for a year straight, I did, ’til I find that out.”

Lyanna is stunned. She can think of no scathing reply or menacing threat. His turbulent eyes seemed to pin her in her place, all while wrapping a hand around her throat. “I… I didn’t…” she whispers faintly.

“Didn’t know? Didn’t expect ya to. Too busy suckin’ the king’s cock to pay no mind to yer people, you were.” His voice loses its venom; it’s now subdued, but broken up. “Don’t matter now. They’re dead, and I gotta make up the difference.”

“I’ll give you coin,” she hears herself insisting. “I’ll pay you whatever Lord Stark pays you while you work at your smithy. If you would wait just a moment, I can go fetch some gold for you right now.”

“I don’t take no coin from whores,” he snarls, then spits beside him into the hay. “Dead is dead, m’lady. Nothing you do will change that.”

 _Dead is dead._ Lyanna feels herself trembling, turning into the meek puppy she oft turned into when she was with child. She reaches out to brace herself against the wall, her eyes drooping to the ground to stare at the stained hay. She wanted to shout, wanted to lash out at him and strike him across the face, to tell him to never speak to a queen like that again. But she could do none of that; indeed, she felt lamblike, tottering on unsure legs and accepting her punishment without a single bleat.

“Does he trouble you, your grace?” she hears Jaime say from behind her, followed by the sound of a sword being unsheathed.

“Put away your sword, Ser Jaime,” Lyanna says fiercely, baring her teeth to the ground below. “It’s I who tarried too long. I’ll go now.” She raises her head to meet Warren’s eye again, though his gaze remained hard and unchanging. “Should you find yourself in need of coin, you may ask it of me. It will not be said that I am as unkind as I am slatternly.” The man does not reply. Lyanna turns on her heel to leave, with Jaime close behind her.

As she turned toward her father's castle- _Ned's castle_ , she reminded herself- she found it passing odd that Winterfell would feel like anything less than a home.


	18. Ned II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned has some meaningful conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope none of you are angry at me for updating so quickly then taking my time afterward. Enjoy!

Benjen had come to visit from the Wall.

Ned received news of this only a moment ago, as a rider came to him with the message that Benjen Stark would arrive at the gates of Winterfell within the hour. Ned had been quite surprised to hear it; the last he'd seen Benjen was right before he went north three years ago, hardly a year after the end of the war. He didn't know what drove him to leave so suddenly; he had only just turned five-and-ten, but never voiced a single complaint regarding life in Winterfell. It had been a silent understanding that Benjen would soon be betrothed to one of their sworn houses, then live his life as a bannerman to House Stark.

But something had changed his mind. When a party of Black Brothers was said to be passing through Winterfell, Benjen asked for permission to go with them. Ned could scarcely deny him; the Night's Watch was an honorable path to follow, and Starks nearly had an obligation to man the Wall. Their parting was short and not at all emotional. They were brothers, sure, but nothing had quite been the same when Ned left Winterfell to fight a war.

But now they would meet again, after years of separation. Ned was not so conceited as to think that Benjen was coming to see him; it was undoubtedly for Lyanna, for the sister he hadn’t seen since she crept away in the middle of the night over four years ago.

Ned walked to the stables, where one of the stableboys would surely key him in on where his sister had gone.

“Went out ridin’ with that knight again,” one of them informed him, a younger boy named Asher. “Took a different horse from last time, I noticed.”

Ned nodded and thanked the boy. Though he didn’t like the Lannister knight following her around, it was an unpreventable part of her living arrangements.

When he entered the keep again, he found Catelyn in the den, sitting in a stuffed armchair, watching Robb and Jon wrestle each other on the floor. They had become such fast friends, these two cousins, despite having such differences between them. One was raised a southerner, the other northerner, one had color in his hair and eyes and cheeks and other was black and grey and white. But they were both little pups, too close together in age and extremely compatible in nature. Any day, at nearly any hour, the two boys could be seen together, jostling each other, talking to each other with their simple speech, and holding hands as they discovered new corners of the keep.

Catelyn looked upon them warmly, a slight smile on her face. When she noticed Ned, she rose to her feet, and went over to his side. “Aren’t they darling, Ned?” she purred, still smiling at the boys.

Ned nods, smiling too. “Where is Sansa?” he asks, noting that his darling daughter was in the room with them.

“She plays with Jeyne in her nursery,” Catelyn informs him. Her eyes didn’t leave the boys on the floor. “Look at little Jon, if you will. I swear sometimes he looks at me and it feels as if it’s you who’s looking at me.”

Ned smiled. The boy _did_ look a lot like himself, though Ned likened him more to Brandon in appearances, with that wild head of curls. But it was perhaps his docile personality that made him seem so much like himself. Regardless of these nuances, one had only to look into those pale grey eyes to find the Stark in him. “Aye, there’s none of his father in him, that one,” Ned acknowledges aloud. These words cause Catelyn’s face to drop, and she frowns solemnly up at him. Ned raised his brows. “What is it?”

“Your sister has promised you that no harm will come to us? To our family?” She asks this in a voice lowered with caution, but with fear as well. Ned instinctively puts a hand on the small of her back, rubbing in circles.

“Fear not, wife. She has given me her word,” Ned assures her in a voice equally quiet. It had been a fear of his own when it was discovered that Lyanna was pregnant, and unwilling to tell her husband, the king. It took a squeeze of his fingers and a repetition of her vow, I promise, Ned, I promise, before he would accept it. “The king’s wrath will not reach us.” That was more than what could be said for his own sister.

“I cannot help but remember what you told me when you returned from King’s Landing those years ago,” Catelyn says, leaning into his touch. “That the king would give us everything: our lands, our lives, our peace, but to always remember that he may take our children to be warded in the South. The thought of our children, Ned…” She trails off, but with no need to finish. Ned had thought of it himself.

“Do not fret, sweet Cat,” Ned tells her, looking down into her sad eyes. “It shan’t happen.”

“Perhaps not now, but what of later? I would not bear it, Ned, for them to be so far.”

“Should they ever go south, they’d have family to look after them. Robb will have Jon, whom he’ll surely miss when he returns home. And Sansa would love life at court,” Ned tells her, trying to raise her spirits. But the words come out of his mouth as weak and unsure; he too could not bear to send his children south, to the pit of vipers that was King’s Landing. “But I do not foresee any of this happening. My sister does not take her promises lightly.” He says this to comfort himself as well, not only Cat.

“I pray you’re right,” Catelyn mumbles, lowering her eyes to the ground, where their son giggled as he climbed up the armchair with his chubby legs kicking. He plops himself in the chair, then waits for Jon to do the same, and once the two of them were seated they grinned at each other, as if proud to have accomplished a task together.

 _They are like a pair of Bravoosi,_ Ned muses to himself. _Like brothers._

Upon the reminder, Ned tells Catelyn the news. “Benjen will be here in less than an hour.”

Catelyn blinks, then looks up to him, startled. “What?” she asked, raising her brows. “How sudden! We ought to prepare a bedchamber for him, as the road was surely a long one. Is he bringing any men with him, do you think? What do you think he’d like for supper?”

Ned smiled and kissed her pretty red head, then assured her that he’ll take care of everything.

* * *

As it turned out, Benjen brought no men with him, which Ned had thought to be dangerous as surely the road was not so tame so close to the Wall. But he arrived unscathed and in good spirits, looking more a man than Ned ever remembered him to be.

He seemed to have grown into his long limbs, and those lanky arms and legs no longer seemed awkward. On the contrary, he walked with a sort of grace, a confidence that was unfamiliar to his usually subdued brother. When he walked up to greet him, he found that he was now taller than himself, a couple of inches added to his lithe stature. When he came even closer, Ned saw the shadow of stubble on his long face, surprising him further.

They had embraced and exchanged a few words; or rather, Benjen did, as Ned was too taken aback to speak.

“What a strange feeling it is to be back!” he said with a smile. “I thought I’d never see Winterfell again. Gods, I thought I’d never be _warm_ again, much less come back here.”

He had only spoke for a couple of minutes before an audible gasp was heard, and Lyanna came rushing into his arms, despite that full belly of hers. It was then that Ned felt oddly akin to Jaime Lannister; the two men could only stand in idle awkwardness before the two siblings finished their embraces and whispering, emotion that was far too intimate for a public setting.

But that was how they had always been: incredibly close, but in a fashion that was drastically different from Ned and Lyanna. Regardless of their moment, by evenfall, the three siblings found themselves in a room they had practically been raised in: the den.

Benjen was poking at a log in the fireplace, stirring up the flames. Ned watched as he dropped the poker to go to Lyanna, who sat in an armchair with her legs up and a hand on her belly. In a single graceful movement, Benjen climbed the seat to set himself on the arm of her chair, one long leg bent and another hanging over the side of the chair. Lyanna laid her head on his knee, her eyes looking to the fire.

It all felt so familiar; the younger two were attached to the hip while Ned sat back looking upon them all, supervising to the best of his abilities. Though now neither one of them had the capability or mind for trouble any longer, it was heartening to be able to see them, to keep an eye on them. All that was left was the sound of their father snoring in a chair by the fireplace, and for Brandon's lively voice to be telling them a story with generous embellishments.

Instead all he heard was the crackle of the fire and the aching emptiness that came with the presence of three siblings who shared the same ghosts.

"Benjen, you must tell me about the Wall," Lyanna pipes up, breaking the silence with her kind voice.

"There isn't much to tell," he admits with a shrug. "It's cold, for one. Half our battles are fights to stay warm."

"Oh, but surely there's excitement? You wrote me that you've been beyond the Wall before." The fascination in her voice was hard to miss; it seemed as if his sister still longed for adventure.

"Aye, well, I've been ranging so often it's hardly exciting anymore," Benjen says with a shrug. "Fought some wildlings here and there, but that's about it. I once fought one that was at least seven feet tall. I swear, Lya, they breed _giants_ up there."

"I bet you're the best swordsman they have," Lyanna says with a hint of pride.

Ned can see Benjen's smile in the firelight, but it's a somber one. "I'm lucky," he says, eyes still on the fire. "I was trained by a master-at-arms, so naturally I was better. Some of these men had never held a sword, much less swung one. They're mostly common men, mind you. Better suited to brushing horses and sweeping floors. But we train them up there." He pauses before speaking again, as if looking into the fire for the right words. "For the first year they mocked me by calling me Lord Stark. Sometimes they got crafty: the Queen's Brother, Benjen the Builder... you know how it is. Whenever I made a mistake or got knocked down in training, they'd say 'didn't teach you how to do that in Winterfell?’. It's hard to be proud of your House up there. But eventually you shed your name and your home until you become a crow of the Night's Watch."

"Winterfell will always be your home, brother," Ned says firmly.

Benjen shook his head. "Winterfell quit being my home years ago," he says, surprising Ned. "During the war I spent a whole year in this place entirely alone. Sure, there was Vayon and Walys, but they weren’t family. Brandon wasn't here, father wasn't here, Lya wasn't here, and you weren't here either. I can hear what you'll say next, brother: There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. But how can you feel a Stark when your kin is dead, dying, or worse?" Benjen takes pause to smooth Lyanna's hair. Ned could see that her eyes were glassy, sparkling in the firelight. "When Ned came back without you, I was right disappointed. He came back with a family instead; one that wasn't mine. I know you tried, Ned, to make everything feel like the way it used to, but we could never go back. Even with you here I felt alone, and out of place, as if I were intruding on this new life you were building. Winterfell felt empty and strange to me. There was no reason for me to stay."

"I-I hadn't known," Ned stammers, suddenly embarrassed. He never noticed any of this, and Benjen certainly never mentioned it. Ned did have some clue of the loneliness he felt in Winterfell, as he had written more than once during the war, and each time it was an unpleasant reminder that his brother of four-and-ten, not yet a man grown, lived in near solitude in an empty keep.

"It's not your fault. You really did try," Benjen says with a soft smile. "You always asked if I wanted to squire for one lord or another, but I didn't want that. In all truth, if I became a knight, I'd end up a freerider instead. Have you ever heard of a Stark freerider?" He gave chuckle at this. "I had known I'd need to do something sooner or later. Lya was betrothed, Brandon was betrothed, and I knew you would be too, Ned. I had thought... maybe after that..."

"I ought to have followed through with that betrothal,” Lyanna whispers suddenly, her mouth curled into a frown. “That way you’d never have been lonely.

"What?" Benjen asked, looking down at his sister.

“I’d have you come and stay at Storm’s End all the time. We’d ride and play and be happy.”

"What do you mean?" Benjen asks again, his face shrouded in darkness. Ned could only watch soundlessly.

"I ought to have married Robert. If I had only done that…” she trails off, not willing to explore the possibility any longer. It was an opportunity long gone and irretrievable.

The mention of his friend throws Ned into sorrow. He hated to think of him now, to remember that smiling handsome face, that voice so full of passion, and to recall what he had looked like slain, for that man never to utter a word again. It was best never to think of him at all.

"He wanted to be a good man for you," Ned says, the words slipping past his lips, words he’d told himself enough times to convince himself.

"I wish you wouldn't say that," Lyanna returns sharply. "I've no illusions about what sort of husband Robert would have been. He'd have been bored of me within a moon’s turn, and then I'll start hearing about his other women. But it would have been easier than this. All he wanted was a pretty wife." She sighs bitterly then. "I heard about Stoney Sept, and of those whores, that he had every woman in the brothel at least once. The story went around in King's Landing. They say he didn't know their names and he would call my name instead. They whispered that it was because I had laid with him, and that he had never forgotten it. For moons they talked about it, said that I was more of a slut than they thought I was. Rhaegar had even asked me one night, if what they said was true, though he knew better. Even in death, Robert Baratheon managed to shame me.”

Ned's first instinct is to deny, but he cannot. He knew about Stoney Sept as well, and had talked to Robert about it after the Battle of the Bells. Robert had only laughed nervously and said that he got carried away. But that was Robert: everything he did was in excess. He fought, loved, fucked, and drank in excess, and it killed him, all of it killed him. Regardless, he’d much rather have his friend alive with nothing more than hurt pride than cold and dead in the ground.

“But if I had known that all this would have happened, I would have accepted it in silence,” Lyanna adds. “I would have been a good wife and kept my mouth shut. I’d have shame, but I’d also have my honor. Ben wouldn’t have been so lonely and Ned wouldn’t have to be a Lord so early, and we would all still have a brother and father.” She closes with this, her lips pressed into a tight line.

“I have brothers,” Benjen says softly, but to who he’s not sure. “Hundreds of them. I’m not lonely up there, I swear it to you. The Wall is my home now. I’m not upset by that.” It was then that Ned noticed that his brother carried a sword on hip; his hand rested on its hilt protectively now, as if guarding something or someone. “I’m up next for becoming First Ranger, you know. I’m doing well.”

 _What do I have?_ Ned asked himself. _I have Cat. I have Robb and Sansa, and I have Winterfell._ He was fortunate; he knew that. But his fortune came through his brother’s death. Ned was a second son, after all, not meant to have the first daughter of a Great House, not meant to have her children, not meant to have all of the North. He couldn’t complain; nay, it would be spiteful to complain. But Ned will always think of Brandon, of how all he has now actually belonged to him by birthright.

It was something he may never shake. And perhaps that was Lyanna’s fault.

“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Ned mumbles to his siblings in the dark, words that came first from his father.

“Winter is coming,” Benjen followed up, finishing the saying that had been repeated to them over the years.

“You mean it hasn’t come already?” Lyanna whispers, her voice carrying an edge. “It came five years ago and hasn’t quit since. Oh, how I hate our House words. It brings me strength no longer.”

“It’s not meant to,” Ned says, his eyes on his sister. “It should frighten you. Starks spend their whole lives preparing for winter. It’s why we are strong.”

“You sound like father,” Lyanna scoffs bitterly, and he realizes she’s right. “I am but half a Stark. Winter comes for me with fire and blood.”

“I am no Stark either, sister,” Benjen says. “I took a vow.”

It dawned on him then, that he was the last of his line. Lyanna’s children are Targaryens, Benjen would have no children, and it is only Ned’s seed that shall be called Stark. Second son or no, this was true.

“That leaves me then,” Ned says aloud. “With all that doesn’t belong to me.”

“Doesn’t belong to you?” Lyanna asks, her eyes wide. “I pray you don’t mean what I think you mean.”

“This is Brandon’s,” Ned replies softly.

“Brandon is dead,” Lyanna says evenly. “And yet all that was his is more suited to you than it would ever be to him. Nay, dearest Ned, I daresay the gods wanted this for you. You are the Stark in Winterfell.” He feels her eyes on him, eyes he knew to be hard and grey, like the steel of which she was made of. “Should you ever need a reminder, you may visit the crypts. There they will stay, below Winterfell, watching over your claim.”

He could see them now, the Kings of Winter, all with swords across their laps. Stone is what they are now, having shed their flesh years ago. Ned was not like them, but he would be.

“You have to live before you die, brother,” Benjen says, his voice strong in the wavering light. “I think Brandon died for what he loved, and so did father. But the gods have given you life. Do not waste it on regret.”

Ned’s pack has changed. There is Benjen and Lyanna still, their thick grey pelts suited to the snow, but now there were three tawny wolves, two pups and their mother. The grey ones have strayed, and have been like that for quite some time. Two had already strayed too far and never returned. Those coppery ones, however, huddled around him, unwilling to leave his side.

Just as well. He would make it so that they would never have to leave.

* * *

He found Jaime Lannister in the armory turning a sword that was not his in his hand.

Eddard did not think to find him there at all; he was only coming to return a sword from the training yard. But there the White Cloak was, crinkling his nose at the weapon in his hand.

“Not suited to your tastes, Ser Jaime?” Ned asks with a hint of venom. The knight looks up at him with surprise in his green eyes, before a smug smirk decorates his lips.

“I can’t quite say it is,” he admits with a shrug, turning it again in his hand. “It seems the North prefers their blades simple.” Ned cannot tell if this is an insult; he bristles anyway.

“We don’t need golden hilts and jeweled sheathes to kill a man,” Ned retorts, eyeing the items in question at Jaime’s hip. The knight only gives an amused laugh, then returns the sword to the rack.

“No you don’t, Lord Stark. Even a rusty dagger can do the part.” With a sharp sound, Jaime pulls his sword from its sheathe, then puts it up to the light. The pale blade glimmers and shines, looking more like a beacon than a sword. It reflects in his eyes, and Ned inadvertently squints, prompting Jaime to laugh that irritable laugh again. “But distraction can win you half the battle.”

“There’s no honor in tricking your enemies,” Ned returns sharply, walking over to the rack to put his own sword away.

“Honor,” Jaime scoffs, putting his sword away again. “You Starks are mad for it.”

Ned cocks a brow. “You speak as if it were disagreeable, Ser Jaime. It seems that that white cloak has yet to cleanse you of your Lannister ways.”

He can see the effect of his words immediately; Jaime visibly winces, but the gesture is quickly contradicted by the smirk that returns to his lips right after. “What can I say? I’m a Lannister through and through. My father would be proud.”

Ned purses his lips tight, unwilling to reply. There was an air of arrogance, of unwarranted pride and avarice that did not belong to a man of an order of prestigious knights. Yet, he should not have expected any different; the man’s blood was that of a deceiver and an opportunist, of Lann the Clever who fooled both the Casterlys and the sun. But moreover, he was the blood of Tywin Lannister, whose purse was larger than the king’s, and whose hunger for power was no secret among the Great Houses. That a white cloak and its white armor did not humble his golden son came as no surprise.

“Might I speak true?” Ned says aloud, turning to look at the young knight.

“You mean you haven’t so far?” Jaime retorts with a smile that fades shortly after seeing Ned’s solemn face. He gives a nod.

“I think the king is a fool for trusting you,” Ned says firmly. “My sister too.” _He’s not so bad for a Lannister,_ is what she had said. Ned could hardly see how that could be true.

“I might agree with you, Lord Stark. Though it might surprise you to hear that I am quite fond of the king, and his queen too.” He shifts from one foot to another, then looks up into the rafters. His scaled armor shined like the sun upon his movement, and his fair face was fairer in the light. Even in the slight illumination, his yellow curls looked to be like spun gold. It was easy to trust a handsome knight, but Ned knew better than that.

“Which queen, pray tell?” Ned returns without a pause. Jaime is visibly startled; he blinks and his lip twitches at being caught off guard. “I do not trust you, Ser Jaime. You are a Lannister; you would favor your family’s ambitions over your honor as a knight.”

“You are right,” Jaime said with a slight lowering of his eyes. “I am no Ser Arthur Dayne, nor am I Ser Gerold Hightower. But if you think that they would do what is right over what is expected, then you are gravely wrong, Lord Stark. They will serve the king’s interests over a queen’s condition on any given day. The only difference between they and I is that I am unfortunate enough to be born into an ambitious family.” There is a stony fierceness in his face and words now, and Ned could tell that he struck a chord. He does not interrupt; he only watches the sparkling gold-and-ivory knight surrounded by colorless swords. “You may damn me for my surname, but if you shall damn me for my lack of honor, then do not forget to damn the rest of the Kingsguard. If it is honor you seek, you may find it in the Night’s Watch.” He sneers, then looks to the row of plain steel blades off to the side. “Perhaps thats why you Starks are so fond of it.”

It was true; Starks manned the walls because there was no greater virtue than to serve the realm. Never had a Stark sported the glorious white of the Kingsguard; the unassuming darkness of the Night’s Watch was much more rewarding. Perhaps Benjen would say as much.

“There is chance for redemption yet,” Ned muses aloud. “Serve my sister well, Ser Jaime. I shan’t have another tragedy befall her on the watch of a Kingsguard knight.”

Jaime only fixes him with cold green eyes that quickly turn laughing again. “Ah, sisters,” he says with a mysterious smile. “They do have a way of getting to men, don’t they?”

Ned recalled Brandon. _Come out and die,_ was what they say he shouted as he stormed the Red Keep. _Lyanna_ was the name he shouted in the Black Cells. It was the name that drove Ned to war and Benjen to the Wall.

“Aye,” Ned said dolefully. “That they do, Ser Jaime.”

“Yet even a brother must decide when to deny them.”

“Have you decided yet?” Ned asks him, pinning him with a piercing gaze.

“I wonder,” is how he answers as he heads for the door.

_I wonder._


	19. Rhaegar V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar goes north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little longer than average, but enjoy!

"She's _what?_ "

The paper in his hands crumples around the edges where Rhaegar's fingers curled. Never had he felt such rage at a letter before, at least not since that one that notified him that his father had two Starks killed in his court. And as fate would have it, it was a Stark that the letter referred to.

"Lyanna is _pregnant_?" Rhaegar grunts after his breath becomes even again. "How can that...?" Gods be good, it was one night. What sort of luck did he have that such an event would occur after a single night? What sort of trick was Lyanna playing by never imparting it to him as soon as she knew?

 _She's craftier than I thought,_ Rhaegar muses bitterly. _Where was that cunning when it was needed at court?_

“I told you,” Jon Connington, bearer of bad news, grumbles bitterly. “She’s too wild. You ought to have taught her respect when you had the chance.”

“I entirely agree,” Rhaegar responds through gritted teeth. He folds the paper none too neatly and shoves it inside his doublet. “I need you to prepare me a trip north. I shall be accompanied by the bare minimum; alert Sers Arthur, Richard, and Oswell. They are to accompany me, along with whomever else you think is necessary. The bare minimum Jon; I wish to get there as soon as possible.”

Jon scowls. “Why don’t you bring your wife here? There’s no reason for you to drop everything and travel a thousand miles just to bring her back.”

“She’s nearly eight moons along, Jon, and that is only Ser Jaime’s estimate. I cannot move her.” Gods, she was wicked! Lying, hiding, keeping herself out of everyone’s sight; it was nothing like Lyanna had ever done before.

_But why?_

Rhaegar figured he’d have plenty of time to think that over, along with an opportunity to ask her that himself. Something warned him that the answer would displease him.

“Alright, then,” Jon mumbles with a grimace. “I’ll get everything ready for you in about three days.”

“Tomorrow, Jon,” Rhaegar returns sharply. “I want to leave by tomorrow.”

There would be no wasted time.

* * *

“She’s _what_?” Cersei exclaimed, her green eyes turning wide. She began to breathe heavily and fan herself, and Rhaegar thought for a panicked moment that she would swoon. Rhaegar reached out to grip her shoulders.

“I know it’s madness, and it’s unfortunate that I must leave you, but it cannot be helped,” he tells her, reassuring, trying to calm her visibly frazzled emotions. Instinctively, Rhaegar places a hand over her middle. She was five moons pregnant, but her stomach was flat as could be. Upon his concern, The Grand Master had told him that every woman was different in her pregnancy. He supposed that this was one of those strange cases. “I must go north and see to her health.”

“Why didn’t Jaime write sooner?” she asks, her nostrils flaring. Even in her anger, she was terribly lovely, which made her difficult to grow exasperated with.

“He says that she wrote me when she was first discovered. He has written now, however late, and he wonders why I haven’t come to see her yet.”

“So she lied to my brother?” Cersei asks, raising her brows. “And she had betrayed you! My lord, that is near treason. She must be punished for her wickedness.” Rhaegar swallowed a lump in his throat. Gods knew he was no good at chastising his wife; it seemed each time he tried it ended in misery for the both of them. Cersei holds his hand, and squeezes. “My lord, you cannot let her get away with these things any longer. She is your wife, and she ought to treat you with such regard. If you continue to exercise kindness in the face of her insufferable behavior, then you treat her as not even your wife, not even a _child_.” Cersei spoke true and he knew it. His wife was often laden with advice and he learned to trust most of it. “She is no suckling babe, my lord. You mustn’t treat her as one.”

Rhaegar cannot help but sigh. “What do you suggest I do?” he asks her, pinning her with a weary gaze. His golden wife licked her lips, and then lowered her eyes before raising them again.

“I have a few ideas,” she says, brushing a thumb across his knuckles. “But I have a request to make of you first.” Her voice was sweeter than wine, smoother than silk. It made him embarrassingly pliable.

“What might that be, my queen?”

“I want to come with you.”

Without thinking, Rhaegar shakes his head. “No. I must make this journey alone.”

“Please, my lord, I wish to be by your side. To be without you would be the keenest pain I’ll know. I’ll not sleep a single night through.” She pulls his hand to her chest, nestling it between her breasts. “And what if you have questions? Those knights don’t know anything about women. Take me with you, so we wouldn’t have to be apart.” Her sharp green eyes bore into him sadly, two little emeralds making indentations on his skin. Rhaegar sighs.

“Very well,” Rhaegar relented with notable hesitation. “You cannot take many people with you. Perhaps your handmaidens, but that is all.”

“That is all I need, my king. Thank you.” She smiles, and then wraps her arms around his chest, leaning into him.

“And we must leave tomorrow,” he adds as she stands on her toes to press a kiss to his jaw. Such soft lips, terribly soft, like silken pillows. He tilts his head down to kiss her sweet mouth, promoting a fire to shoot up in his limbs. As quickly as it comes, Rhaegar stifles it, and pulls away. “Go to bed and rest now,” he urges her; there is a flash of disappointment in her eyes, but she nods and obeys.

Rhaegar watches her as she dresses down to her nightshift, golden hair still loose, and crawls into bed- _his_ bed, he recalled, as strange as it was. No wife of his ever insisted in sleeping in his bedchambers, and in truth, he preferred it that way. He liked the reputation he had, that he shirked his bed to travel to his wife’s chambers instead. Cersei did not seem so keen on it, it seemed. He did not understand why.

Rhaegar looks to the fireplace, unlit and filled with ashes. His eyes find a tile behind it, the only red one in the expanse of white, and found his eyes focused on the gold letters there, the calligraphic script intertwining as if holding hands:

_RL_

* * *

The trip had taken no more than a week.

Though the road was largely pleasant, Rhaegar was thankful that they made such good time. They rode hard and long through the days and slept short nights; Cersei remained in a wheelhouse so that she may be spared the more grueling efforts of moving forward, and Rhaegar did not see her except for the evenings, when he slipped into bed beside her.

She often spoke to him during these nights, her nose touching his as she murmured advice. “You mustn’t be lenient, my king,” was the moral of most of her statements. “You cannot let her believe that she may be so disloyal to you.” He knew, he knew, and gods it angered him. “She has lied to those around her. She lacks respect for you. You are so kind, to let her go north, and she deceives you. For this, you must deliver punishment, my king.” He would nod and listen to her, kiss her fingertips as she spoke. “Do not be swayed by her. She is wicked. You must fix that swiftly, and coldly.” He had hear similar advice from his mother; _You are too soft with her, Rhaegar._ “If she shouts and cries and despises you for it, then so be it. She will learn to overcome her own self-pity, and to devote herself to you. You know that, don’t you, my king?”

He knew. Thus, with Cersei’s words in his mind and a newfound resolve, Rhaegar had decided what he would do.

When he neared the gates of Winterfell, Cersei’s words and mother’s resonated in his head. _You must punish her. You are too soft with her. She lacks respect. Remind her of her place._ The words ruled his building anger, but it was all momentarily pushed aside when they passed through Winterfell’s grand iron gates.

The reason was simple. Jon was the first person he fixed his gaze on.

Though everyone kneeled around him, his little son was on his feet and bounding up to his horse with a wide smile on his face. Rhaegar cannot think to tell anyone to rise; he nearly leaps off his horse before taking his smiling son into his arms, raising him up far above him as he knew he liked before lowering him to his chest and kissing his flushed cheek.

"I missed papa," Jon trilled, still grinning up at him. The words slice at him with cruel savageness, as he realized the extent with which he missed his son, his little boy, the only little boy he had left. In a more intimate setting, Rhaegar might have wept. Instead he kissed his cheek again and squeezed him tight. He puts his lips to his ear and whispers,

"I missed you more, my little prince."

With much reluctance, Rhaegar puts Jon on his feet again, who quickly grabs the leg of his pants and follows him he steps forward.

It was then he saw her, head bowed but knees straight as she stood in between two kneeling figures; one with hair auburn and lovely and another with short locks black as night. Her belly is swollen beyond belief, likely hindering a chance to kneel or curtsey; or so was the excuse he made for her. His rage comes rushing back, starting to simmer before it would build up to the maddening boil.

"Rise!" he calls out to the crowd, and they all swiftly obey. He hears Jon giggle beside him, like amused by his show of power.

Rhaegar steps first to Eddard Stark, clasping a hand and shoulder as they exchanged no more than steely gazes and bare niceties.

"Fair thing to see you again, goodbrother," Rhaegar says with mostly feigned warmth.

"Same to you, your grace. Winterfell is yours for as long as you wish it," Eddard replies before the two break off their stiff exchange.

He goes next to Catelyn Stark, kissing her hand while noting that she grasped Lyanna's fingers in her other one. "Lady Stark, you are a thing of beauty," he mumbles against her skin. A boy with her auburn hair and blue eyes steps out between them, and Rhaegar knows him to be the unfortunately named Robb, only a couple of moons older than Jon. Rhaegar does good on ruffling the boy's hair and smiling, and then kissing the tiny fingers of the littler and fairer Sansa.

He deliberately, and perhaps coldly, skips Lyanna. He can hear Cersei begin to pay her respects beside him, and Rhaegar finished by meeting the tall man on Lyanna's left.

"Benjen Stark, your grace," the man says with stoic flatness.

"By the gods, I do remember you looking much different the last I saw you," Rhaegar muses aloud. But when was the last he saw him? Six years ago at Harrenhal? It seemed a strange thought to bear. "How does the Night's Watch fare?"

"Could use more men, your grace," Benjen remarks, an old complaint from the Wall.

"I shall get on it, then."

It is then that he finally allows himself to look at her. She looks forward, at nothing, with steely determination, as if it were a competition she wished to win. It was then that he also noticed Ser Jaime behind her, looking nearly as stoic as she. He thinks for a moment to pull the knight aside and ask many questions that he needed answered, but he knew his satisfaction could not be found in the dashing knight. Nay, it was only Lyanna who would answer for all that had occurred.

"Lord Stark," Rhaegar calls out, three people standing between him and the man in question. "Would you open your solar for me? I would like a moment with your sister." Not my wife, nor the queen; your sister. Your problem.

Eddard Stark bows and leads the way indoors. For a moment, Rhaegar thinks to see to the arrangements of his wife, her party, and the knights, but that moment passes, scrubbed away by his irritation. Rhaegar's small procession could take care of itself; he had an unruly she-wolf to see to.

Cersei stops before he may go, looking up at him with solemnness. “Let me come with you, my lord,” she says coldly.

“Nay, my queen, I would have some time alone with her,” he tells her sharply under his breath. He does not mean it to insult her; it was that he knew very well that Lyanna would be even more difficult with her rival in the room. Cersei nods, but a ghost of grimace can be seen on her lips.

As he walks away, Rhaegar looks down at his leg to see that Jon had gone, perhaps understanding the need for privacy, and had already joined hands with his older cousin. He cannot resist squatting down to press another kiss to his son's cheek, and does so before following Lyanna's pregnant form indoors.

Neither says a word until the solar doors close behind them, and Rhaegar does not give her the chance. He wanted to get his words in before his fury leveled out, and he would be unable to make clear just how much she'd angered him.

"I had thought to speak to Ser Jaime or your brother to demand an explanation," Rhaegar began sourly, straightening his back so he stood taller. She stood on the other side of the table, keeping distance between them as she glowered. "But it has been made clear to me that there is no one at fault but yourself."

"And you are absolutely right," she retorts with a stubborn set of jaw. “I had lied to them when I said I wrote you.”

"How freely you confess to lying and betrayal!" he exclaims, slamming his hands on the table and leaning forward. "You come north on my generosity, on your brother's lands, and Ser Jaime's time, and you have chosen to deceive us all!"

"It had to be done," she replies cryptically, grey eyes hard.

"I am your husband," he finds himself hissing. "That child within you is my seed, and as soon as it quickened, you should have written me." Then, perhaps cruelly, he added, "It is mine, isn't it?" He does say it to garner a reaction, but she pins him instead with an icy glare.

"That you would ask such a thing wounds me," she responds plainly, baring her teeth.

"And yet I ask it as it seems I have been wrong to trust you." Cersei's words begin echoing in his mind. "Have you so little respect for me? Have I been too kind?" At her silence his anger flares, and for a moment he sees red. "You are wicked! That I ever took such a woman as you to wife astounds me. I have tired of being kind to you-"

"Kind!" she scoffs, her own rage clearly building behind her eyes. "Was kind leaving me to birth alone in a tower? Was kind bringing me to King's Landing without ever helping me to adjust? Was kind allowing five of my babes to be put into the ground without investigation, then failing to see me when I lost our last babe? Nay my lord, you have not been kind. You have pushed me aside and married someone else, and now you have the gall to bring her here, to my home-"

"Enough!" he roars, silencing her at once. He sees that she is panting from her little tirade, and takes this opportunity to speak over her. "You are my wife, and as such you answer to me. What you’ve done is entirely unforgivable.” Lyanna turns her face away from him, her chin lowered to her shoulder. He sees the pretty expanse of her white neck, watches as loose brown hairs tumble down to cover it. Suddenly exhausted, Rhaegar groans, and leans forward with his arms on the table. The crown he wore on his head suddenly felt very heavy; he slid it off, and dropped it before him. Then he ran a hand over his face, and looks up to his wife again.

He loved her when she was with child. Nay, he always loved her, but especially then. She would radiate delight, turning her ivory skin nearly luminescent. She was much less guarded, her heart open and free, her smiles coming to her lips easier. And by the gods, she was fun, and terribly exciting to be around as she giggled and trilled over every little thing, and always reaching for him in the night with a hungry mouth. The days when she was more docile, she’d either be darling or unbearably sad, and either way she’d look to him for comfort and attentions which he was always glad to give. Though these delights had lessened with each passing tragedy, Rhaegar still liked to bear witness to the times when they arise. Instead, Rhaegar had missed 8 moons of shared joy with his nearly estranged wife.

“Why? Why keep it a secret from me?” he rasps, struggling to keep the strength in his voice. “Don’t you think I would have liked to have you by my side? To care for you as I so love to do?” She does not look back to him; her eyes remained fixed to the ground.

“I needed to prove to you that I can still do it,” she said softly. “I wanted to show you that I still can give you children, only not in King’s Landing. King’s Landing is poison.”

“I tire of that excuse,” Rhaegar remarks bitterly.

“It’s true!” she exclaims feverishly, turning her gaze back to him. He sees her eyes are wide with a sort of angry desperation, one of a scorned woman. “I swear to you, this babe shall survive, and it shall be because I am far from that pit of vipers.”

“That pit of vipers is my home,” he says sharply. “And it is yours too, and your son’s.”

“Not mine,” she says fiercely. “Not mine.”

Rhaegar grits his teeth. He chooses not to linger on the subject, and quickly moves on. “We have spoken to the Grand Maester before. He said it was a matter of your womb and your body, not of your surroundings.”

“And yet my womb takes so quickly to your seed. I do not trust that Grand Maester. I know there is a force at work in King’s Landing, something that hates me-“

“Enough! I shall not hear anymore childish nonsense,” Rhaegar calls out, standing up straight so that he was pulled up to his full height. He walks to her side of the table, but keeps a distance of a few feet between them. “Come here,” he commands in a low hiss.

She does not obey. She lowers her eyes to the ground to stare at nothing, keeping her feet planted in place. _Still stubborn._

“I will not ask you again, Lyanna,” he warns. He sees her jaw set in defiance, but she closes the gap between them with slow steps. As soon as she is near, Rhaegar does something he knows will wound her; he puts one hand on the swell of her belly, as he tilts her chin up with his other. She bares her teeth as if his touch burns her, and in truth, he meant it to. “There is the matter of your punishment to be discussed.”

Lyanna scoffs. “How grand,” she says dryly. “One moment you insist I stop behaving like a child, and now you treat me like one.”

“I do this in hopes to finally raise you to a woman grown,” Rhaegar tells her plainly. Her red lips purse in distaste. “After you give birth to the babe, and after you’ve recovered,” he pauses for effect alone, his eyes meeting hers in a hard, unwavering stare. “You return to King’s Landing with me.”

Her eyes widen in shock, and she wrenches herself away from his touch. “No!” he cries out, filled with fire. “No, Rhaegar, you promised me a year, a whole year-“

“I promised you nothing,” Rhaegar reminds her sharply, moving in closer. She bumps against the table and pushed her hands out behind her for balance. “You’ve abused my generosity-“

“Oh, please!” she tries again, her voice quivering. “Please, Rhaegar, my love, I want my year. I need these last few moons-“

“You ought to have thought of that before you’ve gone behind my back.”

“I had to, Rhaegar, don’t you understand? I needed to do it for our babe, for Jon too-“

“You’ve lost your privilege!” Rhaegar tells her with sudden ferocity. “Had you been true with me from the start, I might have let you stay.”

“Might,” she sputters miserably. “It is because of that uncertainty that I hid it. Oh, don’t you understand?”

“I don’t,” Rhaegar says gravely. “You have robbed me of something precious as well, Lyanna. You’ve robbed me of time I could have spent with you and Jon, and I was fool enough to think it a noble sacrifice.” He missed his son and his sweet ways, and all of those quirks that reminded him of himself. He missed how he smiled up at him with his mother’s mouth and her stormy grey eyes, how he would giggle and shout ‘papa’ as he played with him. And Rhaegar would be a liar if he said he did not miss Lyanna and her own exhausting personality that was so easy to love because it loved him back, but fiercer and with more passion than he could ever manage. He missed her loud laugh and the way she curled up into his side, held by his arms like a dragon who guarded his most precious treasure, which was not gold or silver, but a little she-wolf with a warm muzzle.

Gods be good, he did not wish to be apart again.

She seemed close to tears now, her eyes swimming with water, but Rhaegar would not be swayed. He wanted her back home not just for his own selfish reasons, but he knew she needed chastisement as well. It was as his mother said: he was too soft with her. Though he knew that could never really change, perhaps hardness had to be practiced alongside the kindness.

“It’s my fault for taking a child,” Rhaegar mumbles under his breath. Five-and-ten, wide-eyed and wondrous she was, but a child in a budding woman’s body. The Grand Maester had said it too: her young age and underdeveloped body helped to ensure infertility. Looking at Lyanna’s swollen belly now, he realized he did felt pain, not excitement. He knew what would happen to them both, and it was tragedy for the two of them. Yet he would prefer they grieved together in her bedchambers in King’s Landing, and not in the cold, unfamiliar North.

Hypocritical words for a man who once left her to grieve alone.

"Rhaegar, I beg of you, please give me my year," she tries again in her trembling voice. "I need this more than anything."

"No," he responds firmly. "You shall return with me." For better, or for worse.

She opens her mouth, perhaps to reply, but she only presses her lips together, saying nothing. She straightens her back, clasps her hands in front of her, and gives a slight curtsey.

“As you wish, my lord,” she rasps before walking past him and out the door.

A sudden headache came on, one that split into the side of his skull. Rhaegar gives a low hiss, pressing the heel of his hand into his temple, and leans back on the table.

“Only you,” he grumbles under his breath. “Only you.”

* * *

Rhaegar spent every moment he could with Jon that day. Even as he spoke to Lord Stark or the knights, he had Jon at his side, smiling and holding his hand. It was an unbearable ache of longing that he felt for his only child, and he could not bear to be rid of him, not when he wouldn’t leave either. Jon had dragged him around half the castle, to the bedroom he shared with his cousin, to Lyanna’s room, the library, and the armory. When it came time to eat, his son had sat on his lap all through supper, bouncing on his knee and occasionally prattling on about all sorts of topics in his babbling speech. It was strange to say, but the child did not waste a single word. Jon would often be silent, sharp grey eyes examining his surroundings, and would only open when he wanted to vocalize an observation.

“Robb is falling,” he had said once, and when Rhaegar looks his cousin’s way, he found the boy falling sideways onto his mother’s lap.

“Mama’s sad,” he said another time, pointing with a frown to his mother, who sat beside Benjen Stark with an unreadable expression on her face. Such astute observations enthralled Rhaegar, and he accredited it to his son’s gift. The Prince Who Was Promised had to be smart, after all.

But the most jarring words to come out of his mouth was not an observation at all. “Who’s the lady?” he asked in a quiet politeness, pointing to Cersei beside him. His wife had been talking to Catelyn Stark, sharing small conversation, and did not hear Jon.

“She’s my wife,” he told Jon plainly, wondering if he’d understand.

Jon wrinkled his nose. “Mama’s your wife,” he said almost as a question.

“Yes,” Rhaegar said with a tight smile. “And so is she.”

Jon does not reply. He looks from Rhaegar, to Cersei, then to Lyanna across the room, before looking down to the empty plate before him. Rhaegar feels a pang of something strong in his chest. _Ask another question, Jon,_ he urges in his head. _Ask about her, and what she is to you._ Perhaps it was asking much from a child.

“Her name is Cersei,” Rhaegar hears himself saying, almost like begging. “She’s part of our family, like Robb or Sansa.” Still no reply. “Okay?” he asks cautiously.

“Okay,” Jon says tentatively, grey eyes still as ice. Rhaegar lifts him off his lap, standing him on his leg, to kiss his pink cheek.

“You’ll be nice to her won’t you?” he asks with a smile, hoping to get Jon to smile too. He doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says in the same tone as before, then looks back to his mother across the room.

* * *

After he puts Jon to bed, he retires to the bedchambers arranged for him and Cersei in the guesthouse. There was an ache in his bones perhaps better suited to an old man, but it was not a physical ache. He was mentally and emotionally exhausted by the road, by Lyanna, by the number of Starks, and by Jon. _What I need now is a good, long sleep,_ he thought to himself, already smiling slightly at the prospect of a full night’s rest.

He nods to Ser Gerold before opening the door to his bedchambers, and finds Jaime Lannister inside.

He was speaking to Cersei, whose back was to Rhaegar, and there seemed to be an element of anger to his chiseled face. They must have been arguing, but paused their speech when Rhaegar entered.

“Your grace,” Jaime mumbles, before crossing his arm over his chest and bowing low. “My apologies for all that had occurred. I ought to have written sooner, but I took the Queen’s words to heart.”

“I do not blame you, ser,” Rhaegar tells him flatly. “Though I do agree that you should have written sooner. Surely you did not think me so cold a husband as to leave my wife in Winterfell as she grows full with my child.”

“I apologize, your grace. She told me that this was your wish,” he said with his hand still over his heart.

“It matters not now,” Rhaegar said with a passive shrug. “I thank you for your service. I do not know if you have heard yet, but we leave as soon the Queen Lyanna gives birth and recovers.” Ser Jaime nods, then opens his mouth to speak, but takes a heavy pause before he does.

“Your grace, if it is not out of line, I would ask something of you,” the young knight said carefully, stepping toward Rhaegar.

“Speak, ser.”

“After we return, I’d like to ask for you leave so I may go visit Casterly Rock.”

Rhaegar considers this for a moment, but it is only for show. He looks to the Cersei for the first time, and sees her face is a dark mask of anger. He furrows his brows, then looks back to Jaime. “You have my leave, ser. You’ve served me well.” Then with a smile, he adds. “And I’ve no doubt you’ve tired of the North. It is drab.” And cold, and wild, and stubborn, like its people.

Jaime smiles then shrugs. “It’s not for me. Better suited for the Starks and the bears than southerners.” Then he gives another bow, and leaves, his armor clanging as he does.

Rhaegar looks to Cersei again to see that her eyes were still glinting with fury for a few moments after Jaime left. It was strange to see such quiet rage after having been accustomed to a more obvious one, in his family and his relationships alike. There was something in her green eyes that spelled malice along with irritation, must like the gaze Tywin passed to Doran when he proposed lowering Cersei to mistress. He wonders what her brother had done or said before he entered the room.

The fury passes in her face, and she turns to him with a loving smile. “My poor lord,” she says sweetly, closing the gap between them. Her hands go to the fasteners on his doublet as she begins to undo them one-by-one. “Nary a trustworthy soul to be found in the North it seems.”

Rhaegar grimaces. “So it seems.” She opens his doublet, and helps him to slide it off his arms. Then she finds the laces of his blouse and begins to undo those too.

“Was she difficult?” Cersei asks, referring to one person in particular.

“Naturally,” Rhaegar remarks with an unbidden chuckle. “But I did what you said. I was firm and angry; by the gods, I was angry.” His blouse is off, and now her hands were pressed flat against his chest. “She has always been quite good at that. I swear, she likes to see my blood boil.” Cersei leads him to a chair, gently pushing him back in it, and then kneels to pull off his boots.

“She is a cruel person if she takes pleasure in such a thing,” she remarks bitterly.

“I don’t know if she takes pleasure,” Rhaegar muses, propping his chin in his hand and looking to the ceiling. Cersei stands before him, but he does not look at her. “She gets just as upset as I do. She did today. Gods help that woman, she was bursting with child and still-“

With a tug of her hand, Cersei’s nightgown fell to the floor, revealing her body in the dim light. Rhaegar’s eyes widen at the sight, at her round, full breasts tipped with pink, at her narrow waist and wide hips, and those lovely, lovely legs. He feels his cock twitch in his trousers, and Rhaegar nearly curses his eagerness.

“Stop talking about her, my lord,” she murmurs huskily as she lowers herself into his lap, straddling his waist as she did. Rhaegar puts a hand on her back, moving it up to thread through her hair. His other hand went to her hip, where he pulled her forward a little more, close enough to the heat in his loins. “It’s clear that she only angers you. Whereas I…” She leans in, pressing her lips to his. Rhaegar tastes wine and her passion, mixed together like a dizzying drink.

A hand twists in his hair, mirroring his own, which was lost in her golden tresses. The other hand trails up to a breast, which filled his palm with ease, and pressed, prompting from her a low moan. He continues to knead the soft flesh, paying close attention to the hardening nipple before moving to the next. Though he relishes in the noises she makes, she is also more eager than he; her hands quickly leave his hair to pull at the laces of his breeches, exposing him, and, with her own soft hand, she guides him inside her. She was warm and wet, as she always was with him, and when she rocked her hips it was with an almost violent passion. Her nails dragged down his chest, her teeth nipped at his ear, and her lips kissed his jaw so tenderly. “Rhaegar,” she moaned low and sweet in his ear. “Oh, Rhaegar.”

He kissed at her shoulder, pausing to nuzzle the crook of her neck, and she would arch her back at each brush of his lips. His hand moved back from her hip, grabbing her fleshy rump; she gasps, throwing her head back as she does. From her lips came his name again, and the speed of her rocking hips decline. She reached her peak, and he would soon reach his. He felt his muscles tense as a warmth begins in his middle and moves down, down, lower until it dissipates in a sudden surge, and he spills inside her.

He feels himself soften inside her, but she does not move off. She breathes heavy in his ear, her hands trailing up and down his sides. It almost seemed natural to couple with Cersei Lannister. They were precious metals and gems together, gold with silver, emeralds with amethysts, both extracted from the South, both suited to rule. He would put his silver babes in her, and in her womb she would make them beautiful.

“I love you,” Cersei whispers in his ear, before kissing the hollow below it. Rhaegar stays silent. “I love you,” she says again.

The same three words reached the tip of his tongue, but they did not leave. It would have been simple to vocalize them, to mirror her, as silver should complement gold, yet he could not even feign it.

Those three words belonged to someone else entirely, before, during, and after they made love, and whenever she wished to hear them. He was upset now, too angry with that person, but until that faded, he would keep those three words on his tongue, not to be released until the time was right.

"Okay," he whispered into Cersei's hair, but that was all.


	20. Cersei V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei speaks with Jaime and Lyanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole week of waiting, folks. Enjoy!

"Ah, sweet sister, you are simply glowing."

A heat creeps up Cersei's neck at the voice from the doorway. She knows who it is, oh yes she does, and she is absolutely furious with it. She turns to him with narrowed eyes, her lips curling up into a distasteful sneer.

"Queen Cersei, fair and full with Rhaegar's child... Ah, not quite, I see." He was grinning his arrogant grin, one that he had been sporting since childhood. Cersei had half a mind to slap it off him.

"You," she hisses between gritted teeth. "Father is furious with you." And he was, in his own silent way. When news that Lyanna was near bursting with child reached his solar, his ears had turned the brightest crimson, and all he whispered was _Jaime_. It was a frightening thing to lay witness to, and Cersei almost felt pity for her brother, but it was pity in the way she pitied Tyrion: a pathetic creature that deserved the treatment he received.

"Is he now?" Jaime asks, still smiling. "I wouldn't know."

"I see you still have hands," Cersei notes haughtily. "So why couldn't you write us?” Jaime does not answer, only stares at her without a trace of emotion. Cersei continues, and with added fire. “If you had written us, father and I would have told Rhaegar, and her would have returned the bitch to King’s Landing. She would have bled that damned babe out by now, if only you had written!” By the end her voice had grown high and shrill, with her own fury clouding her vision. She takes a step forward and stumbles; Jaime swiftly catches her, and then pulls her to his chest, closing any gap between them.

"Consider it a warning, sweet Cersei," he said low and husky, lips moving slowly down. "That I cannot be pushed aside." He tries to kiss her, but Cersei shoves against him with all her might. He releases her without a fight, green eyes glimmering in the dim light.

"You fool," Cersei hisses, balling her hands into fists. “Your failure will earn you no favors with father, and it shall earn you none with me. How am I to be rid of that babe inside her now? Am I supposed to poison her myself?” The same indifference remained on her brother’s face. It was strange, to look into those eyes and find no emotion behind them, and moreover, no beauty. Jaime was nothing to Rhaegar, she realized. Rhaegar loved better, looked fairer, felt truer. He had private smiles that jumped to her face in a fluttering heartbeat, mysterious eyes that she wanted so badly to understand, and a melancholy about him that drew her like a moth to a flame. Unbidden tears prick Cersei’s eyes at the recollection of her fair husband. “You will ruin everything we have fought for,” she rasps in a thin voice, emotion wearing it down to the slightest sounds.

“Not we,” Jaime reminded sternly. “You and father. I didn’t fight for Rhaegar to wed and bed you.”

“But he has, Jaime, with or without your help, and I aim to keep him. We are becoming so close, Jaime, I cannot lose to her and that bloody babe inside her.”

“Are you still convinced that he will love you?” Jaime asks in a scoff, cocking a brow as he says this. “Where is your sweet and loving king now? Not in your bed, I see."

"What are you saying?" Cersei inquires with venom, teeth baring despite her efforts to stay calm.

"Only one night and he has returned to her bed," Jaime said with a smirk on his lips. "The pull is strong."

She wants to strike him now, truly and completely wants to send the palm of her hand flying across his smug face. Her hand trembles at the prospect, and even rises, but Cersei does not strike. She does not allow him the pleasure.

"He pities her," Cersei sputters miserably. "But he'll not stay. He'll return to me."

_Won't he?_

Her own doubt frightens her. Still trembling, Cersei walks to the plain dresser beside the door and pours herself a glass of wine from the bottle that sat there. There were two goblets; one for her, one for Rhaegar. But Rhaegar was not here. She downs most of the sweet liquid before setting the cup back down.

"Mind how much you drink, sweet sister," Jaime chides from behind her. “They say a mother who drinks too much wine promises a drunkard child."

Cersei smirks. "You know, then?” she asks with the slightest satisfaction.

"Five moons along, I hear, and not a way to show for it."

Cersei swallows a hard lump in her throat at the reminder of her boldness. It was not entirely a lie, however; she was pregnant, only not when she told Rhaegar. She had her moon's blood only days after she told her fib, and kept him from his right to her body with the insistence that she was not feeling well. It took nearly a moon and a whole week before she was truly with child, but by then, her words had already left an impression.

When her father had learned of this, he nearly went mad with fury. "How can I fix this?" he had asked in his hard, cold voice. "How can I possibly fix this?" Cersei would not tell him that she had only said it because she was frantic and jealous, that she would have done even more if it meant another push of the she-wolf out of Rhaegar's mind. It would have been shameful to admit it to her lord father, who undoubtedly would remind her that Lannisters were not stupid, and they did not cower to wolves on the horizon.

Cersei did not cower, but she would not tell her father that either. She would not say that she asked to stay in Rhaegar’s chambers, or made him burn the letters he wrote to Lyanna. “Lannisters do not partake in petty jealousy,” he would have told her. But most of all, Cersei would never say that even when he burned those letters, she had the sinking feeling that it meant nothing, that he likely had them all committed to memory anyway. Her lie was a dangerous statement, she knew, but she had to say it. She was sick of being a commodity.

As a solution, the Grand Maester had suggested for her to take a potion that he would concoct that would induce an early birth, right around the nine moons Rhaegar believed it to be. It would only be eight moons for her; the babe would be undersized and perhaps struggle to live, but it could still live, and a multitude of excuses could be made for its size and health. Once the worst had passed, Pycelle told her, the babe would be just fine.

Still, it was not a route she wished to take. But it was the only one left.

"I am with child," Cersei hears herself insist to her brother. "Only it is not like it should be."

"It seems you and your sister-wife have something in common then,” Jaime japes, but the summoning of Lyanna’s memory was an unsavory one. She turns sharply on her heel to meet Jaime's eye, then grits her teeth at him. Jaime laughs at her show of anger.

“Why do you find amusement in this?” she asks with savageness, tears still pricking her eyes. “I am so close, Jaime, so bloody _close_ to winning his heart and you laugh at my misery.” Be a good wife, be pliable, speak only when spoken to. Indulge your lord husband, carry his burdens, let him do what he likes with you. Cersei did all of this, and yet the unruly she-wolf is the one who held his affections still.

Cersei closes her eyes tight, refusing to hear her brother’s answer.

"You must fix this," she demands shakily. "Her son lives. She lives. The babe inside her lives, and it is all your fault. Now you must fix this."

“Fix it how?" Jaime asks, and for once, it is not in a japing tone. Cersei opens her eyes to find him looking softly at her, as if she were something precious, as he ought to look at her.

"Finish the job,” Cersei commands evenly, closing the gap between them again. Steel armor separated her from his breast, cold and hard beneath her hands, but she presses it against his heart anyway. “Kill her or her babe, Jaime. Please, brother, I don’t want her near.”

Jaime remains silent, lips pressed into a severe line.

Cersei tries again. “Pycelle has given me a poison that you can slip into her drink. A little will kill the babe; all of it shall kill her too,” she said sweetly, a tone unsuited to talk of murder, though she furrowed her brows in frustration. “I shan’t do it myself. You failed father and I, and now you must make amends.”

Still, nothing.

Conscious thought slipping away, Cersei’s hand finds Jaime’s throat, the tips of her nails digging into his skin. Though her hand trembles and her teeth were bared, his expression did not change: he was flat, cold, far away.

A terrible thought came to Cersei. “You love her,” she rasps, unable to believe her own words. Her eyes widen in shock when Jaime did not reply immediately. “You _love_ her!” she exclaims, removing her hand from his throat as if his skin had burned her.

“I don’t love her,” Jaime insists, a cruel curl on his upper lip. Cersei trembled and her vision clouded, as if she had drunk something powerful and monstrous. Her brother, her Jaime between the she-wolf’s jaws… “I don’t bloody love the girl, Cersei, but she’s good. You’d do better to be friends with her-“

“Friends!” she scoffs, laughing dryly. “Friends with that whore, that thief! She has taken what is mine time and time again, brother, she is taking you, and you are asking me to befriend her!“

“Rhaegar was never yours, sweet sister, and no actions of yours shall change that-“

“No, not actions of mine, but of yours,” Cersei returns harshly. “Kill her, Jaime, I want her dead. I want her dead.” Then in a final effort, Cersei rushes to him, and presses her lips against his. It took little hesitation before Jaime melted into her, as she knew he would, and his large hands followed, wrapping around her waist. She tasted his lust on him, his need for her, and with that she knew she still had him under her power.

She pulls away from him hesitantly, allowing him his last taste, before meeting his eye. “You will do this for me,” she tells him softly, raising her fingers to brush his cheek, the same ones that clutched his throat. “Won’t you, brother?”

He doesn’t nod, but he licks his lips. Cersei walks over to her chest of drawers in the corner, and rummages through it before she came up with a vial, hidden in one of her robes. She returns to her brother, and holds his hand, opening his palm to press a clear glass vial into his skin, filled to the cork with a sickly pink liquid. “Please, Jaime,” she begs in the innocent way she knew he liked.

He remained still as stone, and silent, staring down at that vial with a sort of dumb awe. _Say you’ll do it, fool,_ she urges inwardly. _Fix your folly._

“I love you,” he suddenly murmurs, green eyes flitting up to meet hers in vulnerable tenderness.

Her fury starts anew, skipping all its precautions, and jumping straight to a burning fire in her belly. “I don’t care!” she shouts, nostrils flaring threateningly. “I don’t care, just _do it_!”

Not seconds after her outburst, the door opens behind her. The lack of announcement or a knock can only mean it is Rhaegar; for a moment she is struck with fear, left wondering if he heard what she said. Her eyes flit nervously to Jaime’s hand, which now curled closed around the vial.

Her brother begins to speak, but the thumping in her ears drowned their conversation out. She could only stare at his hand, bore holes into it until she swore she saw the vial in his palm. When her brother moves to leave, she averts her eyes to gives him one last look; he returns it with wide, soft eyes.

He would do it. This, she was sure of.

* * *

Rhaegar walks with Cersei down a hall, one identical to all the others she had walked through in this plain grey castle, and stops before a door at the end. He steps in front of her, placing a hand on each arm, and offers a slight smile.

"I urge you to practice patience with her, sweetling," he croons in his silvery voice, one that always sent goose pimples rising on her skin. “As difficult as she may become.”

Cersei nearly felt slighted. What of Lyanna? Was she told to practice patience, or was this another inequality among his wives? Yet Rhaegar looked upon her so fondly that Cersei could hardly complain. Perhaps later, as he traced patterns on her back with his long, elegant fingers, she’d mention her discontent. Perhaps.

She offers a small smile instead, one that seemed to reassure her husband, who quickly leaned down to brush a quick peck to her temple. Then he turns and opens the door, revealing to her a well-lit solar with a sullen Lyanna standing at the window. Upon hearing them enter, she turns her head, those cold grey eyes digging into her. Cersei has to bite her lips to keep from smiling.

“The two of you are sisters,” Rhaegar says firmly, stepping beside Cersei. “And your relationship must start somewhere. I suggest you take this time to talk to each other, as sisters should.” Cersei turned her face up to him, giving him a slight smile as a veiled promise. His eyes were not on her, though; they were focused across the room, exchanging a glance with Lyanna. Cersei looked between the two of them as they shared this look, this gaze, so private yet heavy with something she could scarcely understand. The two seem to have understood it just fine, however.

Rhaegar only gives her a passing glance before walking out of the room, and closing the door behind him. Cersei only looked on helplessly on as he did.

“As sisters should,” Lyanna scoffs from her spot by the window. “What does that fool know of sisters?”

Cersei feels the sudden need to defend him. “No more than you and I,” she said firmly, focusing her eyes on the plain queen.

“You are right,” she quickly relents, but bears a sly smile on her face. “We had no sisters to share affections with. Only brothers.” She steps closer, that full, disgusting round belly leading. She is clad in a plain grey frock, with brown furs around her shoulders like a cloak. They were only a shade lighter than her hair; dark curls hung to her waist, not bound by any ribbon, instead bouncing around her face in all directions. Her skin was white and pale as it always had been, but marred still by freckles. To see that Lyanna was still plainer than she brought untold satisfaction to Cersei. “Then let us speak frankly, since we do not know how sisters speak.”

 _Speak frankly?_ Cersei muses inwardly. They were on equal planes, now. Two queens, married to the same king. One was not better than the other- at least, not title-wise. Cersei could speak frankly if she wished. She could voice all her unsavory opinions, spit out all that infuriated her about the unkempt queen, but Cersei would not. Cersei smiled and pressed her lips together tightly. _Let her speak, so I may repeat it back to Rhaegar._ She hoped she would saying something dastardly.

“I hear that you are with child now; is it true?” Lyanna asks, folding her hands over her swollen belly.

“I am,” Cersei says curtly.

“How far along are you?”

“Five moons.” Cersei does not wince at her lie. She learned not to.

Lyanna cocks a brow. “My,” she says flatly. “I must say, I did not look like that at five moons.”

“It seems that I shan’t get so large,” Cersei said cooly, looking pointedly at Lyanna’s belly. “My lady mother was the same.”

“Alas, mine was not,” Lyanna notes with a shrug, before smoothing her hands over her belly again. “I would like to thank you, Cersei,” Lyanna said casually, already disposing of titles. “By marrying Rhaegar you have relieved me of an enormous burden.” Cersei wants to react, but she doesn’t.

_Calm, Cersei, calm._

“It has taken me time to realize this, but now that he has you, he will no longer look to me for children. You shall be his broodmare, and I…” she trails off, then gives a smirk. “Well, I’ll be his lover.”

Cersei feels her lip twitch in an urge to speak, but she finds she has no response to give. She can only watch with hate as Lyanna smiled and swayed and smoothed her hands over her belly.

“You see, dearest sister, our husband loves me. I am quite dear to him, and though he is angry with me now, it shall come to pass. It always does.” She waved a hand passively. “But since you are here, you make it easier for him to love me. You shall bear his children, be his queen, fulfill his appointments, speak with the ladies of the court, and he shall expect nothing from me but affection.” She gives a little chuckle at some thought in her head, then continues. “He calls me his Rhaenys. And they say for each night Aegon spent with Viseyna, he spent ten with Rhaenys. I wonder, how many nights has he had with you?” She gives a tilt of her head. “He shall have to make up many nights with me, it seems.”

“I sleep in his chambers,” Cersei hears herself blurt out. She feels her ears and cheeks burn with fury, but prays they aren’t red. “Rhaegar has me in his bed.”

This seems to surprise the bitch. She raises her brows and purses her lips, and Cersei thinks for a moment that she had bested her. Then, a sudden as a storm, she laughs an uncouth laugh, one that beat on her ears like sticks to a drum.

“You think that’s a blessing?” she asks incredulously, completely amused. Cersei’s blood runs cold. “I can certainly see the appeal. It is a lovely room, with a beautiful bed. Sheets as black as night and as soft as down, lovely underneath your hands.” Cersei wanted to shout that she knew, she knew because she had been fucked against them, but the glimmer in Lyanna’s eye indicated that she knew too. “Rhaegar had made the offer to me, too. He said I could to sleep in his bedchambers, if it please me. It was quite a tempting offer. But I refused.” She takes pause here, to pin Cersei with her grey eyes. “Would you like to know why?”

Cersei does not answer, not yes or no. Her mind tells her yes, she wanted to know, that every piece of information was important, but the tight feeling in her chest told her that, perhaps, she does not want to know at all. It matters little in the end. Lyanna speaks anyway.

“You see, darling sister, a queen’s bedchambers is her own,” she begins in her teasing lilt. “A king’s is his own. Should I have accepted his offer, and then later quarreled with him, it is I who must keep from his rooms. I would forbid myself into his bed, the one I’ve shared with him, and I would slink off to my own, like a dog with its tail between it legs. I expend energy. I bend to his will.” Her voice is strong and proud, of a woman who would not be slighted. Cersei cannot help but sneer. “But if he sleeps in my chambers, and we quarrel, it is he who is ousted. He must keep away and run off to his chambers, a place that is more foreign to him than my bed, until he wishes to make amends. Never have we quarreled and not made up, and never have I had to come to him; it is him to me, with a hundred ways to resolve what is between us. Our king enjoys my love. But a king’s love…” she trails off, her eyes finding some point above Cersei’s head. “Nothing can compare to a king’s love.” Then she smiles that wolfish grin again, pairing it with a curious tilt of her head that send curls falling off her shoulder and onto her chest. "I wonder how Rhaegar's bed will feel when it's empty, sweet sister?"

A madness suddenly overcomes Cersei, one that hones her tongue into a sharp dagger. “If you loves you so much, then why did he marry me? Why did he leave you after you bled his babe out?” She regrets the words as soon as they leave her lips, but Lyanna’s reaction makes up for it. Her smile slips from her too-red lips, and she blinks. “It’s me he listens to. He takes my advice. The punishment he gave you was my suggestion.” She feels a fury similar to the one she had with Jaime, one that slowly boiled until her chest expanded, her head ached, and her teeth would grind.

“Do you truly think this punishment shall stay?” Lyanna asks when her wits return to her. “Rhaegar does not like to punish people. Rhaegar is gentle. I know how to play my quarrels with him. I know when to bare my teeth and when to put them away. He wants me to be sweet docile, then I shall be sweet and docile, and it will matter little what you have to say after that.” She tilts up her chin, too proud. “After I birth this babe, then you shall see.”

“You seem confident that this one will live,” Cersei says flat, hiding any indication that she knew more than she should. “Your womb has taken poorly to his seed as of late.”

Lyanna narrows her eyes. “It is not my womb that fails,” she says firmly. “It is not my fault.” The darkness of malice passes quickly from her face, and she turns her eyes down to her middle. “Even if this one does not live, his love will not waver,” she said in a low voice, “He has you to bear his babes, and he will have me to love.” Then she raises her eyes to meet hers again. “He will always return to me.”

Cersei cannot stand it. She cannot stand the confidence in those cold eyes, cannot stand her bold tongue. She cannot stand that she had some sort of affect on her brother, and a stronger one on Rhaegar, and she Cersei had to struggle and clamber to achieve a similar effect. Cersei tried and tried and fought, by the gods, she murdered, she had committed treason and blackmail, and even when she finally has gotten what she wanted, a swollen bitch manages to strike doubt into her heart.

Cersei snaps.

“Rhaegar is going to annul his marriage to you and make you his mistress,” Cersei confessed with fury, her voice loud and harsh to her own ears. “The court does not like you, the kingdom thinks you a whore, and not even your own North cares for you. The Seven Kingdoms are up in arms that Rhaegar has taken a second wife, and it is _you_ that he will lower.” Cersei is breathing hard by the end, though she had not said much, and her nails dig into the palms of her hand. Any harder, and she would draw blood.

Lyanna looks calm. Her eyes had widened a little, but only the slightest bit, as her gaze fell unusually tender upon Cersei, like a mother to a child. She wanted to throttle her for daring to look at her so softly, for thinking that she even had the right to meet her eye. Soon she would be a King’s whore, and Cersei shall be queen, and Lyanna would be punished for ever looking her in the face.

“Do you truly think it matters?” Lyanna asks serenely, a lightness gracing her face. “Whether I am mistress or I am queen- do you think I care? I lose no power.” Cersei wants to laugh and shake her all at once, and shout yes you will, you silly whore, you will no longer be queen, but _I_ will. “I rule Rhaegar’s heart. There is much that can be said about our husband, but one truth is that he loves true, and he loves eternal. And he loves me.” Cersei’s lips part to speak, but no noise comes out. She feels shaken, suddenly, like a child thrown against a wall. “If my husband did not love me, then he would have left me in Dorne or found another woman to make love to years ago. I am plain beside most ladies of the court, was plainer beside Elia Martell, and nothing more than a kitchen wench beside you. Aye, he has married you, and perhaps I shall become a mistress, but it is not out of affection for you. Rhaegar wants you for what you can give him. Rhaegar loves me for me, and there is nothing that may change that.” She runs a hand over the swell of her belly again, but Cersei cannot bear to look at it any longer. “You may give him a hundred babes and always remain beautiful, and perhaps he may cherish you for that, but when it comes to matters of the heart, Cersei…” She takes pause, blinking her eyes as if she were just realizing something herself. “He will always choose me.”

 _You take Rhaegar for a simple man,_ Jaime’s voice reminds her in her head. _He loves that damnable woman, and no amount of moon tea and whispers shall change it._ No, it wasn’t true, it wasn’t true. _His love is no easy thing to earn,_ Jaime kept saying again and again and again.

 _If she were dead, he’d have to love me,_ she insists to Jaime’s voice, and to herself, her silent voice drowning out the others within. _With her dead there would be me, only me, and Rhaegar would love me. He’d mourn her, but he’d love me, he’d love me._

It had to be, it simply had to! Cersei was a good wife, the very best. She was wildfire in bed, a lady out of it, and something to be adored and to be loved by all, by men, by women, by her brother, by Rhaegar. And they did, they did adore her, and it was how she wanted it with all except Rhaegar. He looked to her with mere fondness, while he looked to Lyanna with passionate love.

_It’s not fair, it’s not fair. He was mine, always mine._

She wanted to say it aloud to Lyanna, that her and Rhaegar were meant to be, that they were to have a love as true as Jaehaerys and Alysanne, and they would rule as gloriously too. She wanted to tell the she-wolf before her that in her dreams as a girl they rode dragons together, her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek to his back, and that years ago he was supposed to be hers, twice he was almost hers, and she took him from her.

_Meant to be, we’re meant to be together._

Cersei says none of this. She raises her chin and presses her lips together only to stare at the unkempt child-woman before her and wonder if they’d bind all that straggly hair before they lowered her into a tomb.

_I will make him choose me._


	21. Rhaegar VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar spends his last days in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking: 1) FINALLY SHE TOOK FOREVER TO UPDATE and 2) Another Rhaegar chapter?
> 
> and, as always, there's a reason for everything. Enjoy :)

He had been told that Lyanna had complained of pains to Winterfell's maester, Luwin, early that morning. She was already in the birthing chambers by the time he woke, preparations being made that Rhaegar had no part of, and thus had broken his fast before standing outside it. Though his muscles tensed and servants offered to bring him a chair, Rhaegar stayed on his feet, trying his best to dissipate the tension by pacing the floor. By midday, he heard her first shout, a howl of pain, and stayed frozen, curling his hands into fists until his arms trembled as more noises of pain came from the room.

Rhaegar had been raised knowing that the birthing chambers were no place for a man, much less a king. The birthing chambers were a woman's place, made for a woman's trials of which no man could partake in. He remembered being an adolescent walking past his mother's birthing chambers as she brought life to his younger brother, and he recalled feeling sympathy for her, but it was something very different when the woman in pain was his own wife, and even more different when it was a woman he loved. He had stood in this position, as the anxious husband pacing the floor, three times before; twice with Elia, once with Lyanna (only with the most recent babe they lost; he had not been present for Jon's birth, as he was taking back King's Landing, and their other four babes simply bled, not birthed). All those times he was eager, a fluttering anxiety starting in his fingertips, building up until his heart beat like a galloping horse’s. He would wince when he heard an anguished cry from inside. After some time there would be silence, then a babe's cry, loud and desperate, as if they were holding in that wail for nine moons, waiting for the moment to expel it.

(Rhaegar would not forget when he heard silence, silence, silence, but no cry to shatter it. The thought suffocated.)

This time was not like before. Rhaegar felt calm now, paired with a strange dejection as he slowly came to terms that Lyanna's efforts would come to naught. It was a somber thought, but not shattering. Rhaegar was prepared now, already having made up his mind to simply come inside after the silence, murmur some words of sympathy into her ear, and promise that he would make it all better once they were back home. He won't kiss her, unless she wanted to be kissed, though he didn't think she would. Even if she did, it would be gentle, tentative, loving but without lust.

Then he would slip out, comfort himself with Jon's company, and see Lyanna again when he felt the time was right. Perhaps then she would curl up into his side, or put her head in his lap, and she may weep. He would smooth her hair back, hold her to his chest, and apologize for a hundred reasons. He thinks for a moment that they would bury the babe in the North, unlike the four others put in the ground of the godswood in King's Landing. Lyanna might like that. Afterward, they would return to King's Landing, and try to fall in love again. Not like the love they had now, shaky at best, but truly, truly fall in love, like at the beginning, through speech and simple affection, before it built into something both passionate and sweet, something they both may find comfort and joy in. It would feel like starting over. And it would be just fine.

A servant came by and asked for the fourth time if he would like a chair to sit in, your grace. Rhaegar waved this one off like the others, choosing instead to lean back against the wall across from the door, and wait in peace. The stones in the wall were unusually warm, he realized, enough to make him sweat under his collar. He stood straight again. Then slowly, he recalled something he once read, or perhaps was once told: Winterfell was built atop hot springs, the heat of the water strong enough to warm every grey stone. _Winter is coming,_ Lyanna's voice noted in his head. Aye, it was coming, and it seems as if the Starks were perpetually prepared.

The silence came as sudden as a storm. All sound seemed to cease inside the room, but instead of acceptance, a wound-up tension pulled at his muscles instead. He found himself counting, one, two, three, four, five...

Then sound came in the form of a thin wail, which lasted only a moment before it gave way to small cries. His heart thumps in his ears as he listens to the familiar noise of a babe gasping for breath, opening up its little lungs to the world, and through the soft and strained noises Rhaegar knew that those lungs were indeed little, and perhaps even weak.

His first thought is to turn the doorknob and come inside, to see if his ears deceived him, but conventions stopped him mid step. A man had to be called into the birthing chambers, after the babe had been cleaned and its mother made mostly presentable. And though he trembled at the promising noise inside, Rhaegar waited, wringing his hands and chewing his lip until the maester opened the door and bid him entrance.

He tried to look regal as entered. He really did. But the sight before him was too poignant to feign indifference at.

Lyanna sat up in bed, wisps of her brown hair sticking to her face with sweat, her tired eyes turned downward to the babe nestled at her breast. His breath hitched in throat, his eyes locked on the babe swaddled in grey with its pink face, pink lips, its pink cheek pressed to its mother's pale nightgown. He cannot speak to voice the question in his mind, but it was answered before he may attempt to ask it.

"A girl, your grace," the Maester says from behind him.

Rhaegar's heart quickens, thumping wildly against his chest. He licks his dry lips, then slowly makes toward the bed, lowering himself onto the edge of it. Lyanna did not look up at him; her eyes remained focused on her babe, even as Rhaegar extended his arms so he may hold their daughter.

"Lyanna," he tries to say softly, but it comes out biting. His wife pays him no heed; in fact, it seems to him that she gripped the child tighter. "Lyanna," he tries again, the fire intentional this time. He was anxious, damn it all! He wanted to touch that little pink child, holding her and breathe her in to be sure that what he saw was reality, not a dream.

Lyanna gave a little whimper before slowly depositing the babe in his arms. She begins to sob, though he does not know why, and he saw that she trembled like a leaf in a storm. He thinks for a moment to offer comfort, but is swiftly distracted. The cheek that was pressed to her mother's breast was now pressed to his arm, face still turned to her mother.

There are tufts of silver hair atop her small head, a color paler than the grey blanket wrapped around her now, and one that was Targaryen, not Stark. _She's so small,_ Rhaegar thought to himself. Why was he surprised? How long has it been since he held a child so fresh and tiny, face still pink, eyes not yet open? Years was the answer, more than five, when Aegon was first born. Was Aegon so small?

He could hear the babe breathing shallowly, as if each gasp of air was an effort. Her lips parted to let more in, and a soft suck of air could be heard with each passing breath. His princess had weak little lungs to come with her weak little body.

Rhaegar sucked a breath in himself when she turned her head to face him. Lyanna's sobs grew heavier, and her voice quaked, as she asked, "Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she?"

On the side of her face, starting at her temple and reaching the top of her cheekbone was a stain the color of wine. It was mostly rounded save for the sides, where it seemed like little wings aimed to sprout, spreading out in trembling red pools. Rhaegar moved a finger from the top of the mark to the end, all three or four inches of it. When he moved his finger down to her little hand she grasped it, offering a slight squeeze. The mark could not be ignored. He knew that it would be stubborn, perhaps irreversible, and it would mar his daughter's face for the rest of her life.

But did it matter? Four years were spent to get Lyanna with child, and with that time came five babes buried in the ground. And now she has given him a babe, albeit frail and scarred one. The aching in his chest told him it didn’t matter. After all, how long had he pined for a daughter? How many nights did he dream of his little Rhaenys, lost to the flames, her face smiling even in death? Her sweet giggles stayed with him still, as did the feeling of her fingers threading through his hair, the weight of her on his knee, and the sweet smell of her neck.

 _The gods are giving me another chance,_ Rhaegar notes, running his thumb over his daughter’s tiny fingers.

Rhaegar looked to Lyanna, who wept and wept though he didn't know why, and felt something swell in his chest. He looked at her pale cheeks, straggly hair plastered to her face, her loose nightgown exposing the tops of her swollen breasts, and those weeping grey eyes. Something riled within him, or rather many things: joy, sorrow, fury, all shifting and rearranging as a certain measure of pride and guilt washed over him. Energy thrummed underneath his skin, beating in time to his wild heart, and an emotion stronger than the tides crashed against him: love.

He looked to her and fell in love again.

"She's beautiful," Rhaegar said, his eyes still focused on Lyanna. Her sobs stopped when the words left his lips, and she gave a little nod. Rhaegar wriggles his finger from his daughter's grasp to bring his hand to cup Lyanna's wet cheek. Her trembling hand comes up to cover his, and she turned her head to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

A woman's cough reminds him that they are not alone. Rhaegar blinks, and looks to the audience in the room: various women and the old maester, each looking upon their show of intimacy. Rhaegar gently draws his hand away from her face placing it on the bed, palm up, so she may lay her hand over his.

“I know what to name her,” he tells her softly. The name had been in his head for years now, gathering dust for the day that he could finally put it to flesh.

“Me too,” Lyanna replies, looking him square in the face with a disarming gaze.

“Visen—“

“Elia.”

Rhaegar opens his mouth to protest, but the squeeze of Lyanna’s fingers paired with the stirring of the babe against his chest takes the fire out of him.

“She will be named Elia,” she says with finality, not interested in his opinion. Rhaegar does not tell her that Dorne may find it unsavory, or that it wasn’t a proper name for a Targaryen princess. Perhaps he might tell her later, but not now. His eyes drift down to his pink daughter again, and the only thought in his mind is getting her little head fitted for a circlet.

“Your grace,” the maester’s gravelly voice calls to him. Rhaegar looks up to find the room had been cleared, and that the maester stood at the foot of the bed. Straightening, Rhaegar looks to him with clear eyes and nods.

Just then, Visenya stirs against his chest. She whines softly before building up to soft, ragged cries. Lyanna takes her from him, then opens the front of the nightgown to reveal a swollen breast. Rhaegar suppresses the need to cover her in the face of the maester, and bites back the urge to insist on a wetnurse. They argued on this matter before, and established that a Queen did not nurse; Lyanna, being the Northern woman that she was, had insisted otherwise. Now Rhaegar saw that milk leaked through her gown and her breasts seemed larger than they should be. He stayed silent, then looked back to the maester.

“Yes, good maester?” Rhaegar defers to him calmly while still sitting in his seat, too tired to move.

"Your grace, the Queen had asked me to study the matter of her health; in particular, the reason why she had lost so many children." He spoke in a steady, soothing tone that played on his nerves like nimble fingers. Yet despite this, Rhaegar seemed to have visibly bristled at the mention that his wife had, again, gone behind his back with a personal matter, as Lyanna reached over and squeezed his fingers.

"Please, Rhaegar, listen to him," she urges in her low voice, her puffy eyes fixed on him. "Maester Luwin is a good man. My brother trusts him, and so do I." That familiar fire crept into her tones, lending him strength while also tearing down his walls. He lifted her little hand and kissed her knuckles, soundlessly promising placidity, before looking back to the maester.

"Forgive me, your grace," the old man said, giving a bow.

"Do not apologize," Rhaegar returns with a shake of his head. "I am eager to hear what you have to say."

And thus, in his low, calming tones, the maester began to speak. He spoke first of the Starks, that the women of that line were not prone to miscarriages, and Lyanna's five may the first in hundreds of years. He noted the irregularity of the short durations of the first four pregnancies, and the rarity of mothers losing babes so close to nine moons when they lived under palatial conditions. When Rhaegar interjected to tell him that the Grand Maester had said it was because of her young age when she gave birth to Jon, Luwin had returned by saying, "If her grace were truly infertile, seed would not take root inside her." Rhaegar had mulled over that for a few moments before urging him to continue.

"Despite his difficult birth, Prince Jon is remarkably healthy," the old man said with a soft smile. "Your daughter, unfortunately, is not." Rhaegar thought first to deny this, already growing protective of his tiny daughter, but he heard how Visenya breathed so shallowly each time she pulled away from Lyanna's breast. "Yet, considering her grace's miscarriages, I do not think the Queen is entirely at fault."

Rhaegar arched a brow at this, and leaned forward.

"What do you believe the cause is, good maester?" he asked with all cautiousness.

"Considering the family history, the nature of the miscarriages, and now the princess's condition..." The maester takes pause here, as if building up to some harrowing conclusion. Rhaegar braces himself. "The likely suspect is moon tea."

Rhaegar can only stare with his mouth open. "Moon tea?" He repeats, disbelieving. "Are you sure?"

"I would never," Lyanna sputters beside him, just as shocked as he. He turns to look at her face, her eyes wide and her lip trembling. "Rhaegar, I wouldn’t— why would I? No, never-" She shook her head, then reached over to grab his fingers. Their eyes met, exchanging silent conversation, and Rhaegar gave a nod.

"I do not mean to imply that her grace has drunk it knowingly," Maester Luwin said, drawing Rhaegar's attention again.

"Then she's been poisoned?" Rhaegar asks, still incredulous.

The maester gives a tight grimace. "It is like that she was. A womb may take a certain measure of damage through moon tea. The princess's condition points me to that."

The mark on her face, her small size, her little breaths, were, according to the maester before him, the result of years of moon tea. But why didn’t the Grand Maester say the same? Pycelle had told him it was simply the queen’s underdeveloped body at the time of her pregnancy, and that was likely the reason why Lyanna’s marriage to Robert Baratheon hadn’t already taken place by the time Rhaegar took her. And Rhaegar had believed him.

 _I do not trust that Grand Maester,_ Lyanna hisses at him in his head.

Rhaegar feels the heat of anger begin under his collar before it slowly built to his head. He turns sharply to look to Lyanna, whose face still bore the signs of confusion and disbelief.

“Who brews your tea, Lyanna?” he asks her with a strength that had evaded him for many moons now. It returned now, bleeding from Lyanna’s fingertips and into his skin.

“My handmaidens,” she told him as Visenya pulled away from her breast, softly fussing instead. She licks her chapped lips, then furrows her brows. “Gods, Rhaegar, you don’t think they did it, do you?” She bore a devastated expression; Rhaegar caught the concern in her eyes, and he knew it was not for herself, but for the women who served her.

“I will send word to Ser Jonothor in King’s Landing to have them arrested,” Rhaegar announces; though Sers Arthur or Gerold may be better suited to the task, they had come north with him, along with Ser Oswell. Jonothor would have to do. “They will be interrogated on my return home.” He did not intend to have them harmed, but he did require information; he needed to do it for the sake of his wife and children, and any future children as well.

“Then I cannot return with you,” Lyanna returns with a kindling fire creeping into her voice. “If there are dangers in King’s Landing, then I shall not return with you.”

Rhaegar wants to deny her this as Cersei’s reminder to be firm in his punishment pushed itself to the front of his mind, but he only had to lay eyes on his marred daughter to see the sense in her words. “Very well,” Rhaegar relents with a measure of regret, as he had desperately wanted her back at his side. Her safety was more important. “You and our children shall remain in the North until the threat is eliminated.” A dark thought passes over him, and he grimaces. “I doubt your handmaidens acted alone. If there is a greater force at work, I will see that the master of it will have his head on a pike.”

“And what if it is a she?”

Rhaegar is taken aback before realizing that this was typical of his headstrong wife. It suddenly dawns on him that the nine moons of separation had done more than put distance between the two of them; there was an emotional gap as well, one that still had not been fully bridged. This realization strengthens Rhaegar’s resolve. Whatever the evil was, it would be vanquished, so that it would be all the quicker that Lyanna returned to him.

“Man or woman, the criminal will die,” Rhaegar declares firmly, and suddenly it feels like they are the only two people in the room. He lifts her thin hand and presses a kiss to the center of her palm. “I swear it to you.” _By fire and blood._

* * *

He had spent his last days in Winterfell largely by Lyanna’s side, though never alone. He walked with her around the grounds, with Jon between them and holding each of their hands as Lyanna cradled Visenya— or Elia, as she called her —in the crook of her arm. These walks were largely silent, save for the times when Rhaegar would ask to carry Visenya. Though she most of her time sleeping, his little daughter had already opened her eyes to him, beautiful lavender orbs looking up to him with wonder and curiosity. The light in her eyes seemed to scrub away at the mark on her face, leaving Rhaegar completely enchanted. That was her mother’s trait, he shortly came to realize: the ability to seem like the most beautiful creature, the most mysterious, with only a single look.

She drew him in like her mother did.

Rhaegar had not forgotten Cersei, however, but every reminder made him uncomfortable, for it was her bed he slept in for every night in Winterfell. Her presence did not bring him calm as it did before; rather, it suffocated him, and he could not say why. But he tried to be the dutiful husband, and he knew that on his return, he would have more to prove, only to the kingdom and his small council. A decision had to be made to quell the troubles in the country. The decision is what troubled him.

When he told Cersei that Lyanna would remain in Winterfell— though he did not say why —Cersei had, surprisingly, readily agreed.

“Jaime is staying too, of course?” she had asked him. When he said that he would, she had nodded and smiled. “I did not think you would leave her unprotected. You are a good husband.”

On the last night before his return south, Rhaegar found himself at Lyanna’s door. Ser Jaime had given him a bow before moving aside. Rhaegar opened it himself and stepped into the dark room, where the only source of light was a candle by Lyanna’s bed.

She sat up upon his entrance, hurriedly covering the breast her daughter had been suckling from. Visenya slept soundly at her side, and to Rhaegar’s surprise, so did Jon. His son had his back to his sister, slumbering on his side with a thumb touching his lips.

“I did not realize Jon slept with you,” Rhaegar said to Lyanna, his eyes still on his children. They looked so peaceful; the sight warmed him.

“Then that tells me you do not see to your son before you sleep,” Lyanna remarks somewhat cruelly. Rhaegar could not help but wince; his reaction seemed to soften her, however, as she lowered her eyes and frowned. “It is only for the length of your visit,” she whispered. “I did not want Jon to sleep alone.”

“You are filled with fear, wife,” he notes with a frown. He goes to side of the bed where Jon slept, seating himself on the very edge. “That is unlike you.”

“And how not?” she retorts fiercely, still keeping her voice low. “I have been poisoned, and that poison has killed my children. I had told you, Rhaegar, I swore to you that there was evil in King’s Landing, but you refused to listen. Now we suffer for it.”

Rhaegar wanted to recoil under her piercing gaze. There was truth to her words, and shameful ones too. He rests a hand on Jon’s head, then runs his fingers through his curly dark hair. “Would that I could make it right, dearest Lyanna,” he murmurs softly, his gaze going between Jon and Visenya. The mark on her face seems to accuse him as well. “I hear there are creams in Essos for marks such as those. I shall send—“

“I speak of threats, and you speak of a mark? You shan’t send for any creams. Our daughter has fought to live and now she bears the scar to prove it. I pray she wears it with pride.”

Rhaegar raises his brows, surprised by her words. She looked so sullen, her full lips curled into a pout, her long, thick lashes casting a shadow on her pallid cheeks. Her freckled nose was wrinkled, her strong brows furrowed, and her legs pulled up to her chest, making her seem smaller than she actually was. Her eyes looked down, shielded from him, though Rhaegar could sense the fright in them.

“This is only the beginning,” she whispers cryptically. “With two queens, the game of thrones has only gotten thicker. But then, there is only one throne, isn’t there? And only one queen may sit in it.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “We’re in danger, Rhaegar.”

“Lya-“

“Please, do not argue or deny. I know you do not wish to hear it, but the lives of our children are at hand. So long as I am queen, someone will want me dead. So long as Jon is a prince, someone will want him dead. So long as Elia is a princess, someone will want her dead. Then there are those who would prefer to see a Lannister king come to power over a Stark. There are also those who are mad enough to make it happen.”

“You will be under my protection,” Rhaegar urges her, fire building inside him. The things she said struck fear in him, for in this room were his three most important people. He wanted to keep them safe, he wanted to keep them happy, and to give them all that they deserve. “I have the Kingsguard and army at hand. Should anyone be mad enough to try it—“

“Will you wait until someone tries?” she interjects with wide eyes. “I know it is too late to annul your marriage to Cersei. I know that if you do, the Lannisters will bristle and fight. I do not carry that threat lightly-“

Rhaegar knew what she was going to say, and opened his mouth to protest, but she was more forceful.

“I am asking that you annul our marriage, Rhaegar,” she nearly begs, shifting to her knees and clasping her hands. “I will be your mistress. I will be whatever you like. But do not make me Queen any longer.”

“You don’t deserve that,” Rhaegar tells her fiercely; he does not say that he had already come to this conclusion himself, but was too angry with himself to admit to it. “You are my rightful queen.”

“Do not go to war over me. I hardly need a second one to be associated with my name.” She reaches across to touch his cheek; the familiar feel of her fingertips calms him, but turns him mournful as well. “I will do this for the sake of our kingdom. But I require safety in return.”

“How so?”

“You will house me outside of King’s Landing. Assign your most trustworthy guards to keep watch. And I shall keep Jon and Visenya with me until Jon is of age, and learned in defending himself. Only then can I return.”

“No,” Rhaegar says partly in anger, but mostly in sorrow. “I promise you, I will protect you. No harm will come to you or our children, my sweet, as you are all so precious to me. I understand there is danger now, but I will find who is responsible. I will bring him and his house down, if he has one, and you will not know fear. But I cannot, I will not, send you or our children away.”

“You do not know that it’ll vanish—“

“The evil will be gone upon your return,” his insists to her. He wishes to make his determination clear to her, but he doesn’t know how. “I will be rid of it if it kills me. This, I swear.” He covers the hand on his cheek with his own before moving it down to her elbow. “I’ve made mistakes. Forgive me for that. Forgive me for our coming annulment as well, but know that in my heart you are my only wife. You are my Rhaenys.” He sees tears trickle down her cheeks, glimmering in the dim candlelight, but her eyes are as clear as day. In a feat he could perform a hundred more times, he draws her into his lap without disturbing their slumbering babes. “I have been stupid and I have been blind. Forgive me, sweetling. But please don’t leave my side again.” Her wet cheek was pressed to his chest while her head rested under his chin. He buries a hand in her hair and places the other on her waist. “I would rather die,” he adds in a rasp, the words losing itself in her hair.

“Valar morghulis,” he hears her murmur softly before she gives a little hiccup. Rhaegar is initially taken aback to hear High Valyrian come past her lips, but he knows that she had heard it from him enough, though only in songs.

“Valar doeharis,” he says in return. “And I serve you.”

He holds her like this for some time until her quiet sobs cease. Then she tilts her head up and kisses him, just once, no more and no less, and it is that kiss that would warm him for his entire ride home.

But for that night, he slept in her bed, their two children between them, and Rhaegar feels more at ease than he had been in years.

* * *

“They confess to nothing?” Rhaegar asks sharply, not at all masking the grimace of displeasure on his face. The handmaidens have been under arrest for three weeks, and though they had not been mistreated, and all four have nothing to confess to, insisting that they hadn’t a clue. Their chambers had been searched for tansy and other herbs, but none could be found.

“None at all, your grace,” Ser Gerold informs him gravely.

“Bring them in here. I will speak to them myself.” Ser Gerold bows and exits the solar to do his bidding. Rhaegar stands in front of a looking glass to be sure that he appeared his finest. He knew some of the more secretive points of a woman’s vulnerability, which was something he simply learned when he was raised as a prince. He was handsome, and that was an advantage.

By the time the women entered his chambers, Rhaegar had built enough irritation to hopefully come off as a threat. The irritation was not purely artificial, however. He had parried words with the Grand Maester since his return to King’s Landing, who continued to be apologetic and infuriatingly forgetful, and for every day that the women remain without confession meant another day that Lyanna and his children would remain in the North. It was an infuriating thing.

The four women before him seem like a small party indeed for a Queen’s handmaidens, but it was like Lyanna to keep things simple. Rhaegar nears them, just enough for him to sense all of his towering height, and offers a small smile.

“You ladies appear in good health,” he offers kindly. “I trust your stay in the dungeons hasn’t been too terrible?”

They all shake their heads. One is bold enough to speak. “Your grace has been very kind,” a blond one mumbled with her head bowed.

“Then might one of you do me a kindness in return and give me an answer?” he asked coolly, moving his eyes to each one. “Which one of you have been brewing moon tea for the Queen? Speak now and offer the name of your master, and I promise more kindness.”

The four suddenly speak all at once.

“Twasn’t I-“

“I swear-“

“Never, she’s a-“

“Beg of you-“

Rhaegar grimaces at the noise. “Silence,” he commands firmly, but not in a shout. They all cease to speak. “There are no other handmaidens but you, am I correct? None other who brew the Queen’s tea?” They all shook her heads. “The jars from which you fetch your tea leaves have been inspected. There is no tansy in any them. One of you is producing it yourself.” There is a heavy silence, one that Rhaegar reads as ignorance. He bites back the urge to sigh.

“Your grace,” one squeaks in a whisper. She is tall with fair skin and brown hair braided down her back. “Your grace, we are innocent. We swear it.”

“We are,” another one pipes up. “We love our queen. She is kind to us, and often offers us holidays.”

“Aye,” a third agrees. “She has given my family money to help with expenses. She is terribly kind.”

Rhaegar looks to the fourth, who remained silent.

“And you?” he asks of her, skeptic. “What has she done for you?”

“Truth be told, your grace, I have yet to have the honor of serving her,” she admits as her pale skin turned red. “I am here in place of a handmaiden who had yet to return from the holiday her grace ad given her after she went to the North.”

“What?” Rhaegar asks, incredulous. “Where is she now? Why did you not come forward with this information earlier?”

Tears formed in her eyes. “I did not think it was relevant, but now I see that it may be. Her name was Edith, and she made us swear we’d keep her leave a secret. She gave us money to keep us silent. She had planned to go on holiday and not return. I would take her wages. But I don’t think she needed them, your grace. She was wearing some fine jewelry-“

“You understand that keeping this secret may cost you, girl?” Rhaegar asks in anger, gritting his teeth. She looked near close to bursting into tears, but Rhaegar pressed her anyway. “Where is she now, then? No more secrets.”

“Dead, your grace,” she quivered softly. “Her house burned down with her family in it about seven moons ago, not three moons after her grace left.”

Rhaegar wanted to strike something. He could feel heat crawl into his bones and his lungs as tension built from his toes to his fingertips. “Out,” he whispered to the four of them before he would see red. “Get out!” he repeats again, this time with more fury than he intended. They all left in such a hurry that they didn’t bow, but Rhaegar didn’t care. Once they were out of sight, Rhaegar’s hand lashed out to a glass goblet on his desk, and watched as it broke against the wall and bled wine on the pale pink stones.

“Damn it all,” he hissed under his breath. The last of the evidence had burned with a girl.

Jon Connington came in shortly after with a letter in his hand.

“From Lord Stark,” he announced gruffly. It was unopened, that grey wax direwolf glaring at him in disappointment. Rhaegar tore it open with more might than intended and skimmed over the words.

His anger dissipated in one wave of heat, as six words, scrawled hurriedly, as if in a panic, shattered his will:

_Lyanna and her children have disappeared._


	22. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime returns to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick update, huh? i got this finished before the next chapter of 'Ghost', even! this chapter is considerably shorter than the previous one, however.
> 
> enjoy!

_”Please, Ser Jaime…”_

He hated how her voice remained in his head. He hated how she pleaded with him, how sweet and innocent she looked with her new babe sleeping in the crook of her arm. He hated how her eyes were wide with fear, making her seem like a babe herself. He hated that he left marks on her thin wrist from pulling her away. He hated how close his blade was to her throat.

_”Please, kill me first. I don't want to see them die.”_

He didn't look down to the prince, too fearful of what he would do, or not do, if he looked into those calm grey eyes. But even if he did, Jaime would see Cersei. He saw Cersei everywhere.

_”I know you are a knight, and I am a Queen…”_

He told Lord Stark with his mistrusting glare that she went missing and he went searching for her as soon as he realized. He was out all through the night and for the larger part of the morning before he returned to Winterfell. It was strange how readily the guards lowered their arms. "It is only Ser Jaime," he heard one say. They all assumed he was protecting her.

_”Without me, they will die. I must protect them.”_

For the greater part of the next couple of weeks he joined Winterfell's men during the search, pretending to be dumb in regard to her location. It was a kidnapping, they had all insisted. Her jewels were missing, her crown and the prince's too looted from her rooms. That had been thinking on Jaime's part. He left those things with her.

_”Please, Ser Jaime, please…”_

When the royal guard arrived with Rhaegar, he had been pressed with too few questions, and almost as an afterthought. The King had called him into his chambers, chin perched in his hands, dark circles under his eyes, exhaustion on every line.

"When did you notice she was gone?" he had asked with concern, but not urgency.

"Late at night, your grace. I only peered inside as I often do when guarding her." This was not a lie.

"Were any windows open? Any sign of struggle? Any noise before that?" His questions suddenly quick and almost cruel, as if he were blaming him.

_If only you knew, your grace,_ he wanted to say.

"Nothing, your grace. Just an empty bed," he said instead.

"And you searched for her?"

"Extensively. Though I believe her brother put in more hours than I." Lord Stark had been motivated by his devastation to go find her. He would go out in the early mornings and return late at night with his pretty lady wife waiting for him at the gates, wringing her hands in concern. Every evening, he returned with a haggard look to his face, as distress seemed to line his every feature. Lord Stark loved his sister. Jaime loved Cersei more.

"How can she simply disappear without any trace?" Rhaegar had hissed, irritated. He had plenty to be irritated at, Jaime imagined, yet he sensed that not a single emotion would be spared for his lovestruck sister.

"It happened before, your grace,” Jaime reminded him curtly. It was not his place to speak to the King like that. Lucky for him (and in some ways, unlucky), the King does not lash out.

Instead, he is caught somewhere between shock and indignation before he simply scowls, his sister's favorite face contorting into something that was still respectable. "Yes, but she didn't have two children with her then," he grumbled before dismissing Jaime with a wave of his hand.

It bothered him that he doesn't mention Cersei, not even once.

_Her trembling hand had brushed his cheek, and he knew it was for fear. But her face... her face was indomitable. Bold eyes looking into his, upper lip stiff, jaw set. A fighting face._

The king was still in Winterfell when Jaime made his way back to King's Landing. He was met with no fanfare, no applause, no compliments on a job well done. No sympathy, even. He walked through the gates with Lyanna's voice sparring with Cersei's face.

He wanted so badly to see her now. He had done it, after all; Lyanna was gone, her children gone, and now Cersei could have the bloody throne and her stupid husband and her purple-eyed son as king one day. That was all she wanted. That was all that she expected to happen with Jaime's deed.

The pale pink stones of the Red Keep blurred before him as he walked down the hall to her chambers. He paused to rub his eyes before continuing forward. His armor felt heavy too, he realized. The weight of it seemed starkly apparent as it clanged and pushed down on him with all its might. Each step was heavy and he felt lethargic, and just plain _tired_ , tired of trying, trying of protecting, tired of legacy and of honor. The walls seemed to grow into a deeper shade, a darker red, like the blood of innocents.

Ser Barristan stands outside her chambers. Jaime felt his heart fall into his stomach at the sight of the man who stood stiff with honor, the man who promised to blame him if something happened to the Queen. Something did, and he was to blame. But perhaps Jaime wasn’t quite ready for it yet.

Barristan does not spare him any words. He only scowls and walks off, as if he were too disgusted to do his job any longer. Jaime is thankful for the disdain.

_Hair was sticking out of her plait, short dark curls seen as silhouettes in the dark. Moonlight played on her pale skin and danced on the bridge of her nose. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Ser Jaime?”_

He enters without knocking, knowing that she could be in no state of undress that he hadn’t seen before. For the briefest moment, however, he wishes he had never entered.

When she turned to look at him, she led with her belly. It had grown much since he’d seen her last, swelling almost to Lyanna’s size before she gave birth. Cersei had her delicate hand perched on the perfect curve of it. She wore a dress of the lightest pink to match the color in her high cheeks, one that covered all of her arms but none of her neck, the flesh there leading down to the swollen curve of her breasts. From the bust down, she seemed a goddess, like The Maiden he had often likened her to, though his sister was no maiden and The Maiden certainly never bore a child. But beautiful she was, and incomparably so.

When he looked to her face, he found it glowing with sorrow. But when recognition flickered in her eyes, that mask of mourn fell, and she beamed at him with a brightness that outshone the sun.

“Jaime,” she breathed before extending her arms, opening her breast to him. Jaime wanted to run into her arms and bury his nose in her hair, to smell her familiar scent and try to ignore that her belly was swollen with another man’s child. Jaime wanted to do all this and more, but invisible ropes held him back. He tried to take a step forward, but he felt light headed and suffocated. The scent of burning flesh filled his nose. Jaime felt sick.

Cersei was the one to close the gap, to wrap her arms around him the best she could between his armor and her sizable middle. His hand trembled as it rose to her head to thread his fingers through her long, golden hair.

“I knew you’d do it,” she purred contently, her pretty voice filling his ears as it so often did. “Father had his doubts, but I believed in you. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” She tilted her head up to kiss his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, but not his lips. “Tell me, how did you do it? You must have poured it in her drink at night so she died in her sleep. You’re too merciful, brother, but it’s sensible. The hour of the wolf would be the best time to move her body.” She grinned too broad a grin.

Jaime reached for the pouch on his hip and gave it to her. She looked with a mixture of curiosity and delight as she looked the pouch over, perhaps expecting a token of his night with Lyanna. She smiled with all her teeth when the item fell into her palm, a crystal vial with a pink liquid inside, the same color as her dress.

“You didn’t use it,” she said with a musical giggle. “You always did like to bloody your sword. Was she awake when you did it?” Jaime nodded, and a glimmer of glee flew into her eyes. “Did she beg for mercy? Did she weep and shake and fall to her knees? Did she bargain? Knowing that little temptress, she was like to have offered you her cunt if it meant her life. Oh, you must tell me!”

_She reached out to brush her fingertips over his knuckles, the ones that were clenched as he gripped his sword. He saw the Prince cling to her skirts, eyes still turned up to him, eyes that he still avoided._

Cersei clasped his fingers with one hand and the poison with the other. Jaime didn't know what to tell her to please her. He didn't know if he should tell her that she did beg, that she pleaded that only she be killed, then after that he kill her first. He couldn't mention the silence of the night, how not even leaves rustled, how her babe didn't fuss, and how the prince remained eerily calm. Cersei wouldn't care for all this.

"You're not like to be so simple. I know how you love showmanship, dearest brother mine. You probably teased her and made her beg and weep. You killed her babe-"

"She did nothing," Jaime cuts her off with softness. She furrows her brows, then pulls her hand off his.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

This displeased her. She puts her hands on her hips and huffs before turning around and walking to her writing desk. _Nay, not her's, the king's,_ Jaime reminds himself. These were the king's chambers, with the red sheets and black tapestry, that ornate writing desk and the initials of his first name and Lyanna's in the fireplace: R and L, the letters curling around each other and holding on.

He sees Cersei pull out a fresh sheet of paper and dip her quill into the inkwell, then tapping it on the sides with a few little clinks.

"I'm going home," Jaime imparted to her as if through a glass sheet.

"Home?" his sister inquired absentmindedly.

"To Casterly Rock." Cersei speaks no more, too busy writing. Jaime continues. "I'm going to see our brother."

This catches her attention. She wrinkles her nose and sneers, but her eyes don't leave the paper. "Why would you want to do that?" she asks with disdain.

“Because I want to,” he says plainly. Cersei doesn’t react, she only writes and writes and gods know to who. But he wants her to speak, wants her to throw some emotion his way apart from excitement due to a job well done. Jaime wanted to be touched by her, kissed, held and talked to, not disregarded.

“Did Rhaegar give you leave?” is all she says instead, offering him nothing.

“He did.”

“Do be sure to see father before you go.”

“Perhaps I might.”

“Well, alright.”

_”Alright, Ser Jaime,”_ _she said in a voice he could tell she was forcing not to waver. “Do whatever brings you peace.”_

The scratch of the pen on paper was all that filled the room. The metal of the quill seemed to carve into the inside of his head, words that were not meant for him. Jaime knew he should leave and free himself of the suffocating indifference of his sister and all that damned noise. But something made him stay. It might have been the weight of his armor, feeling heavy than any body by now.

“Do you want me to go?” he hears himself ask in a voice that seemed foreign. It was far away, somewhere across the sea. His sister looks up at him briefly with her bright green eyes before looking back down. “Say the word, Cersei, and I’ll stay.” His heart began to beat faster, galloping like a horse and climbing in his throat. His palms sweated, his lip trembled, and his vision grew bleary; he was anxious enough to die.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said with a half a shrug. “Rhaegar is sure to return soon enough. He promised he’ll be back before I birth.”

“Do you want me here?” Jaime asked the same question in a different fashion, hoping to evoke the proper answer, and not Rhaegar’s name.

She gives a little huff and looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “Jaime, do whatever you like. I’ll be quite busy for the next few weeks as it is, so I won’t have much time for you.” And just like that, Jaime became last year’s gown, something to throw away or pass down to someone less fortunate. He was not her twin, her likeness in every way, or even her brother. He was a convenience. He was nothing.

“So you want me to go?” Jaime asks once more, looking to her as the walls seemed to crumble around her, pale pink stones falling to the hem of her pink dress, nearly knocking the pink vial out of her hand. Everything was falling around him, his whole world breaking apart while Cersei sat at the center of it, cold, immovable, bound to her spot with love for another man while Jaime was condemned to love her forever.

Cersei doesn’t seem to notice this, or even hear his words. She only writes, the only Queen of Westeros, and unrightfully so. Jaime closes his eyes and turns around, walking to the door.

“I’ll go then,” he rasps under his breath. No voice calls him back. No hand holds his. She lets him go, and thus Jaime goes.

His feet take him to the undercroft in the White Sword Tower, where seven bare mannequins stood side-by-side. Jaime took off his armor piece by piece, slowly and deliberately relieving himself of all of the crushing weight before placing each part back in its place on the mannequin, but keeping the sword at his side. He stepped back to admire the unscathed, unburnt, pure armor of freshly fallen snow. It was the armor he wore every day for six years, the armor that signified honor but meant scorn for his father. It was the armor he wore when he stood outside King’s Aerys’s chambers as he raped his wife, the armor he wore when Lord Stark burned and Brandon Stark choked, the armor he wore when he gazed into the green flames and watched a woman and her children burn. It was the armor he wore that last night with Lyanna, her son’s face reflected in it. He turned from it, and walked the steps up to the Round Room.

It was empty, thank the gods. On the white weirwood table, in the middle of that white room, sat the White Book, The Book of Brothers. He opened to his page somewhere in the middle, pulled the quill from the inkwell beside it, and wrote at the bottom of the page: _Killed the Queen Lyanna Stark and her children, Jon Targaryen and Elia Targaryen._ He didn’t spend time to look over the other achievements. They weren’t important.

He let the book open to his page, then pulled a fresh sheet of paper from a stack beside it, pages likely meant to be bound into the book later. He scrawls a few sentences on it, signs it, then stares at it until it dries. Then he folded it up and placed it in the front of his doublet.

_”I pray you may one day find happiness, Ser Jaime,” she murmured before she tilted her head back, exposing the thin column of her neck. It was such a little neck to hold such eyes, which were heavy with emotion yet clear as day. He held his sword to the white flesh turned blue in the moonlight, then looked down._

The door to the room opened, alarming him. He thinks for a moment to hurriedly close the book, but he pauses, knowing very well it would make no difference now.

It is Ser Arthur who enters, his dark face looking strangely at peace. He looks to Jaime with a surprised expression that passes as soon as it comes. “You’re back,” he regards him plainly.

Jaime nods. “And you.” He knew that Rhaegar had sent out most of his available men and his most trusted knights to search for Lyanna. Ser Arthur was among one of those knights; it seemed strangely soon for him to return.

The knight looks over him briefly, perhaps taking note of his lack of armor. Jaime expects him to chew him out for the Queen’s disappearance, or to at least treat him with some biting coldness. Instead, he just asks, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Home,” Jaime replies with the faintest smile.

“Do not let me get in your way, then,” the knight said plainly before walking to the other side of the table. He puts his hands on the white wood, and takes notice of the White Book, open to Jaime’s page. He sees him raise a brow in curiosity. “Did you write in it? You’re forbidden from doing that, Ser Jaime.”

“I know,” Jaime admits, still smiling. “But what I write is true.”

Arthur walks to his side to catch a closer look at the page. When he reads the words Jaime had just written, his brows rise, and he looks to Jaime with a strange calm, no words spoken.

“I admit to it,” Jaime tells him, meeting the eyes of his mentor, his idol. He braced himself for an oncoming struggle, to be thrown to the ground and arrested. The moment doesn’t come. Jaime takes a deep breath, and continues. “And perhaps it is not my place to ask, but I want to go home. Just give me one moon, Ser Arthur, and you may tell the King. You can send men after me, assassins, dogs, by the gods, send yourself and kill me…” He pauses, trying to keep his sight focused. “Just give me a moon.”

Ser Arthur stands erect, and takes a step back and to the side, moving out of his way. Jaime’s breath hitches in his throat, but he does not stir, not yet. He reaches into his doublet and hands Ser Arthur his folded letter. “This is my confession. Give it to the King when the time comes. Have the signature checked with the one in the Book, if he does not believe you.” Ser Arthur takes the letter with his battle-worn fingers, then tucks it into his belt.

Jaime takes tentative steps past him, walking slowly to the door, still expecting an arrest. He pauses in the doorway, then turns his head to look at Ser Arthur, looking the true knight in his shining armor, his sword glimmering in the light. Jaime thinks for a moment that Ser Arthur was purer than he’ll ever be. Jaime held secrets and lies and indecencies, but Arthur was good and proud and loyal. But he knew this was not true; no man could wear the white cloak and not come away soiled by it.

“Thank you, Ser Arthur,” Jaime says, his voice finding strength anew.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Ser Arthur replies sharply, dark eyes boring into him.

Jaime smiles. “I know.” He does it for a woman— don’t they all?

He steps out into the sun, it’s bright light warming his skin, making him come alive. He felt light as air as he mounts his horse, and rides out of the Red Keep, out of King’s Landing, far, far away from Cersei, and to a place where he may cleanse himself and start again. He would leave without his heart; this he knew, and accepted. It would beat in Cersei’s lovely, bloody hands until he returned to retrieve from her.

He thinks for a moment that he ought to turn back and tell her that he loved her one more time, that he did not regret, not for a moment, the things he did for her. Jaime decides against it. It felt better just to ride, wind on his back, urging him forward into something new. He thinks he ought to stop somewhere soon, and buy something for Tyrion. Just a little present, to show him that he cared. The farther he gets from King's Landing, the more he is sure he should.

_”Thank you for being my friend,” she whispered, the vibrations of her voice transferring to his sword. The Prince looked to him and then away, burying his face in his mother’s skirts, hiding._

“My only friend,” Jaime found himself mumbling under his breath somewhere on the Kingsroad. She was the one who listened to his stories, that one who walked with him side-by-side. The one who exposed her heart to him, her desires, her emotions, and all on accident. And he had done the same. He supposed that’s what friends did, though not always on accident. “She was my only friend.” She wanted nothing from him, and he wanted nothing from her. The simply existed together, showing parts of themselves they always feared displaying, and they did it without shame.

Aye, the Lady Lyanna had been his one and truest friend. That in itself was a gift, one she might have realized too as the lonely Queen. But greater than all of their exchanges, or any words was her presence. Through her, he repaired the broken vows of the past, swore himself to her, to protect her as her knight, her champion. He would have pulled her from the flames or from a cruel husband's claws. He would have done it and been glad. In a way, he had done it. He saved her.

And what a wonderful feeling that was.


	23. Cersei VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei tries to deal with a grieving Rhaegar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)

You might be a big fish  
In a little pond  
Doesn't mean you've won  
'Cause along may come  
A bigger one  
\- Coldplay, _Lost!_

 

 

 

_Notice me, please!_

The words threatened to leave her lips near every day since Rhaegar returned from Winterfell. She wanted to shout, to take him by the shoulders and shake him, to scream in his face and dig her nails in his throat, anything, _anything_ to make him notice her.

But all he never did. Even when he came to bed he seemed to look right through her, never touching her, never speaking to her except to say, "They still haven't found her."

She would reach for him in the night when her body ached for him, beg softly that he lay with her, and he would turn away from her touch as if she had burned him. When she spoke to him during supper or breakfast, he would only hum listlessly in response or stare blankly at her. He slept fitfully, if he slept at all, until the circles under his eyes darkened and the life seemed to leave him. When her babe kicked and she told him to feel it, he looked at her with those hard, cold eyes, as if wondering why she spoke to him at all.

She wanted to be touched, to be kissed, smiled at, fucked by him, but he was colder than a long winter, and harsher too.

One evening, she slipped out of bed well after midnight, well after when Rhaegar was supposed to sleep, tiptoeing to his solar not far down the hall. It was pitch black and the night was cold, so she pulled her robe around her tighter and squinted to see him. She found him as a silhouette in the darkness, sitting at his desk with his face in his hands. Moonlight danced on his silver hair which was splayed over his shoulders and arms, brushing the desk, as he just sat there as still as stone.

"Rhaegar?" she called softly to him, so she wouldn't frighten him. He didn't stir, not even to raise his head and look at her. Cersei walked to his side, wanting to feel the nearness of him. She lays a tentative hand on his shoulder; when he does not move away, Cersei becomes bolder, and strokes his back. "Come to bed, my love. You're tired." She had to bite her lip to keep from begging, please, please, come to bed and hold me, don't be cold any longer.

"I cannot sleep," he mumbles in return, his voice worn and low.

"I will help you to sleep," Cersei offers quickly, hoping to seize her chance. "I will do whatever you like until you sleep." Gods knew she would, if only to rest in his arms without him tossing and turning and twisting the sheets.

Then he did something strange: he chuckled, as if he had been told an amusing jape. "Sleep?" he asked with bewilderment. "How can I sleep when she is gone? When my children have disappeared?" He slumped his shoulders and gave a doleful sigh. "I cannot sleep. I cannot even close my eyes without seeing her face."

 _What of my face?_ she wanted to ask in return. _What of our child, the one that grows in my belly now?_

Cersei dared to allow her hand to wander as far as the back of his neck, just touching the hair on the nape of it. "What if she is dead?" she asked flatly, unable to feign compassion. She wanted him to hear the truth without revealing it to him. He does not respond, however; he remains in his cold silence, unmoving. "You have me, and soon enough we will have our babe. If she is gone, then we must start over, you and I.” Her voice began to break of emotion; she had voiced her solitary wish to him, all that she wanted from all that she had done. Just the two of them and their beautiful brood, which would surely grow with each year. The pain of childbirth would feel like nothing more than a minor distress if it meant he would be pleased with her.

“If she is gone,” Rhaegar begins in a slow, scratchy voice. “Then I…” He raised his head so that it was illuminated in the dim moonlight. His face was pale and blue, and his eyes were as flat as the dead’s, with no glimmer to hint at life. They dart to her, then look upon her as if she were an unwelcome stranger. Her chest tightened at the harsh stare, but she could only meet it with wide eyes and uneasiness.

Her hand trembled as it touched his, drawing it to the swell of her belly. He hadn’t touched it like this, she realized, not once since it rounded so fully. And yet that was something she dreamed of; such a simple gesture, one she saw Rhaegar do with Lyanna a countless number of times when he thought no one was looking (but Cersei was always looking, always gazing), but now she wanted it more than anything. His fingertips touched the fabric of her robe now, barely brushing her. Cersei swore that her babe moved inside her at this mere graze, and a tingle spread across her skin.

 _Please, my love,_ she begged inside her head. _Please, touch me. Look at me, notice me, feel me._

But when his eyes met hers, his hand pulled away and he turned his head. Cersei felt her heart drop into her stomach— or was that the babe too? She didn’t know anymore. The babe’s moving and her own pain felt one and the same now.

“Leave me,” he rasped, looking down at the desk.

“Please,” she heard herself whisper with a weak quiver in her voice. “Please, Rhaegar, you and I-“

“Leave,” he repeated in a voice that was louder and colder than before, but Cersei would not move. She could not. She only stared down at the man she fought tooth and nail for, the man she killed and bribed and hurt for, the man she chose over her brother, over her own senses, over her honor. She stood in her place and tried to keep from trembling, feeling more vulnerable than a leaf caught in the middle of a cruel storm.

But Rhaegar would not have her lingering presence. He rose from his seat and exited the solar, moonlight still dancing on his hair, leaving Cersei in her solitude, in her anger, and in her shame.

* * *

As she neared eight moons, less than two weeks away from drinking Pycelle's potion to induce her birth and cover her lie, Rhaegar didn't come to bed at all. She knew he had to rest somewhere, but whom could she ask? What sort of a fool would she seem to be if she asked a White Cloak or a servant where her own husband was?

When she lay in his empty bed, atop his black sheets, she thought of him. But not of the man as a whole, but a single part of him: his eyes. Those pools of dark purple that she first saw years and years ago, when he was not yet married, at a tourney, the first time she knew she would one day wed him and love him and bear his children. His eyes had been so sad, then, his sorrow deep enough to drown in. She wished to fix that sorrow of his, whatever it was. She wanted to pour a part of herself into him and make him whole, to have him look to her and smile from all the joy he felt for her, all the love. Now they were sorrowful for a different reason, and she had caused it.

She shut her eyes tight against the dark thought. Turning on her side, she stroked her belly as he never did, and stared at his pillow. In a fit of yearning, she reached for it, and buried her nose in it, inhaling his sweet, manful smell, one she loved more than she could confess. It was sweeter than her brother’s scent, but regal too, in a way Jaime could never be. She wondered for a brief moment if he was enjoying his time with their imp brother; Cersei doubted he did.

Her eyes went to the black canopy overhead when a sudden chill overcame her. The satin sheets suddenly felt like ice beneath her, no longer warm and soft. On impulse, she moved off the bed and escaped from the bedchambers. They were not hers, and they could never be. She heard Ser Barristan stalk behind her, but she did not care. Let him follow her wherever she may; she didn’t care at all.

She walked further down the hall, until two white figures gave her pause. After blinking her bleary eyes, she found they were two knights, Kingsguard, standing outside of a door. Cersei padded closer until she stood before them. They were Sers Arthur and Gerold, both standing still as stone yet twice as cold.

“This is…” the words left her lips in a soft whisper. “This is her room.” ‘Her’— Cersei would not say her name.

The knights did not answer. They seemed to serve no more a purpose than statues, as the two stone lions that perched outside Casterly Rock had done, just standing, looking forward. She reached out and turned the knob, glad that they did not stop her, and allowed herself to step even further into antechamber until she reached the bedchamber. Then, as she sucked in a breath, she opened the door into that too, and found her husband in another woman’s bed: Lyanna’s.

He lay sleeping soundly, motionless among the pale blue sheets. His face was at peace, as he did not toss or turn or even stir. Cersei could only stare at him, this picture of calm the likes of which she had not seen in so long. She watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, and then how he turned on his side to pull the pillow beside him to his chest, burrowing his nose into it.

Cersei could not watch any longer; she turned from him and out the door as she walked as fast as her large belly would allow her. She walked down the hall to her bedchambers, the one she had slept in for only a few short moons before she left it for Rhaegar’s. It was red as blood and gilded, with a lion and a dragon intertwining above her bed. Cersei wanted to throw that damnable figurehead down, to shatter it and watch the pieces fly, but she knew she couldn’t because Rhaegar had it done for her, back when he cared for her, and Cersei wanted to remember it. She felt her head spin and her breathing grow heavier and heavier until she began to sweat, feeling unbearably hot.

She pulled off her robe with trembling hands, ripping a part of the fabric as she did. She was still wearing her chemise and smallclothes, ones she hadn’t had taken off for night after night because Rhaegar didn’t want to touch her, didn’t want to fuck her. With clumsy feet, she stepped to the looking glass, one that went from her head to her feet, and she stared at the woman who stared back.

Her eyes were red and wet, but she would not weep, for Cersei was a lioness and a Queen, and she did not weep. Her bleary eyes raked over her pink cheeks, her swollen breasts which ached for a tender touch, the large swell of her belly and her slender legs beneath it.

“Why doesn’t he want me?” Cersei asked her reflection in a thin, broken voice. She was beautiful, even with that large belly, lovelier than Lyanna or Elia had ever been. She cared for her husband, but what was more, she _loved_ him more than she could ever say. Rhaegar was her sun, the one she chased so she could bask in his warmth and be brightened by his light. She never left him wanting, let him have those rare nights where he wanted nothing but to fuck her over and over, and despite her sleepiness she always moaned and peaked for him. She did not demand much of him, did not nag him or perturb him, let him write when she wished to be held, let him hold her when she wished to be fucked. She sensed when he wanted something and knew when he didn’t, and Cersei performed to his desires.

Now she was losing to a stupid, plain girl who had whined and howled, one who was selfish as a lover and a wife, one who bled his babes out one by one and still earned his love. She was dead, gone, never to return, and Cersei was a living woman and yet Rhaegar wanted her more.

“Notice me,” she said to him though he was rooms away. “Notice me, please, please look at me!” Her voice came out ragged and strained as she swallowed back tears. Oh, how she tired of his cold touches and grim frowns, of his terse dismissals and grave expressions! By the gods, she wanted him. She was born for him to love, as Jaime was born for her, but where she had loved Jaime, Rhaegar didn’t love her.

 _”You will be Queen,”_ her father’s deep voice told her in her head. Cersei had always added “and the King will love you” whenever he had said that, and now she realized why he stopped where he did. She was Queen now, but where was Rhaegar’s love?

 _In a wolf-bitch,_ Cersei seethed with anger, with sorrow. _In a dead slut who knew only how to open her legs and moan for him._

Cersei did more than Lyanna ever could. She _was_ more than she ever would be, for Cersei was a Lannister, a lioness of the Rock, and Lyanna had been a mere she-wolf bowed from the cold of the North. Her teeth were larger, her claws sharper, and her will stronger, but even so, Cersei was losing, losing, losing.

 _Lannisters do not lose,_ her father’s voice told her, and her mother’s too.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asked them both, one who couldn’t understand her and one who was too dead to understand. She stepped closer to the mirror, so that her own pained, pretty face was in sharper focus, and leaned her hand against the looking glass. “How can I win?”

She thought of Lyanna, and all the ways she won Rhaegar, and Cersei realized she had done them all. She gave him his love, offered her cunt, was his good and proper queen, and now she carried his child. Lyanna had given him two, but Cersei would give him more. Her hand fluttered over her belly, feeling for her babe. Was she to wait until the child was born? Would he look to her with kindness then?

The bitch had lost five of his babes, and he had still loved her. Cersei remembered Lyanna’s losses, her victories, very clearly. The Queen would remain abed for days after, where Jaime said that Rhaegar would visit her whenever he could, not even closing the door before pulling her into his arms and kissing her or just holding her. He would whisper to her, he said, and though he could not hear what he murmured into her ear, the words were clearly no less than utterly kind. “All the tenderness in the world,” Jaime had told her. “He loves her more than anything.”

Cersei began to tremble and shiver, and suddenly she felt cold again. She found her robe on her bed, then pulled it around her. The pocket of it fell heavily against her skin, poking her with something hard. Cersei reached a hand into her pocket and felt it: cold, hard, and small. She pulled it out, her hand suddenly stilling its trembling, and stared at it. It was pink and smooth, encased in crystal and topped with cork.

“All the tenderness in the world,” Cersei whispered wistfully before pulling the cork and putting a few drops of the sweet tasting poison on her tongue.

* * *

She swam in her dreams for what felt like a few minutes and a year all at once. Voices would enter and exit her head as unwanted visitors, each one stepping in to offer an opinion she did not ask for.

She heard her mother telling her in her sweet, melodious voice, “You shall be Queen.” Her father’s voice said the same until it became a haunting chant, resonating throughout her body. Later, she would see them faces smiling, even her grim father. They were proud of her. She accomplished what they wanted.

And she did, too.

They faded in time, only to be replaced with Jaime’s hearty laugh. It was a cruel, arrogant laugh, the one he put on when he teased her. Cersei wanted to shout for him to stop, but she cannot speak in her own mind. Jaime just laughs and laughs until it became gravely quiet in the darkness of her thoughts, and he whispered, “I love you. More than he ever could.” His hands come out of the shadows; in one hand was a crown of gold, grand and embedded with rubies of the deepest crimson. In the other was a crown of flowers, pink and lovely. Cersei reaches out to touch the gilded crown, and then everything fades away in a rush of cold air.

She woke with a sudden start, Jaime’s laugh still ringing inside her head. Blinking her eyes, she looks around, feeling very lost. These were not her bedchambers, or Rhaegar’s. It was a room she had never been in before, but the pale pink of the stones told her she was still in the Red Keep. The sheets below her are soft and purple, a shade lighter than Rhaegar’s pained eyes, and her pillow smells like flowers. She wore a thin cream nightgown, unlaced so that they hardly covered her swollen breasts. She had been sleeping, she realizes now; but for how long?

Her hand slips under the sheets to feel her belly. It was flat as a plain now, with the babe inside her gone and no longer stirring. It was a strange relief to be rid of it, but it was not without a bit of sorrow. The babe had been faultless, except that its father did not love it. But Cersei didn’t want babes with a man who wouldn’t love them. This was a necessary sacrifice, so that she can make Rhaegar love her.

As if summoned, Cersei turns her head to find Rhaegar sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Her heart flutters at the sight; there he was, the man she loved, visiting her in her loss. Now she could touch his sleeve and he would turn to hold her, kiss her, promise that they’ll have a hundred more babes to replace the one they lost. She sits up carefully, ignoring how her tired body cried out against the movement, and reached out to brush her fingers down his back.

He turned to look at her with flat, weary eyes. The circles underneath them seemed darker somehow, and more foreboding. The beauty of his face seemed to leave him entirely, particularly when he grimaced at her, the cruelty of the gesture tightening her chest.

“She is dead,” he says gravely, his voice low. There was a choking sorrow to his voice that was difficult to ignore.

“Our daughter?” Cersei asks softly. She thinks for a moment that this was a small sacrifice; every man preferred sons to daughters, after all.

“Lyanna,” he says instead, felling all of Cersei’s hope in one word. “And our daughter,” he adds as an afterthought, though it was clear that he did not care nearly as much. “Your brother killed her, and my children.”

Cersei blanches as his piercing eyes continue to bore into her, as if laying blame on her. _Jaime told no one,_ she told herself frantically, her head spinning. _And I told no one. Who told him?_ The only word that slipped past her lips with a simple, stuttering, “How?”

“How?” he scoffed, as if insulted by the question. “With a sword, dearest wife,” he snipes cruelly, though there is a flash of sorrow in his eyes. “He slaughtered my sweet Lyanna and darling children and ran, dumping their bodies into the sea, and for no reason but to bloody his sword. He confessed it all in a letter.” Cersei could hardly meet his devastating gaze with all of its harshness and mourning. Her eyes drifted down to his sneering lips as she tried her best not to tremble. “Your brother is a treasonous murderer. Your father has relinquished any bond with him, and now I have asked for his head.”

 _He only did what I asked,_ she wanted to tell him, though she knew she never could.

“But what good will his head do me now?” Rhaegar suddenly urges with savage sorrow, his voice breaking. Cersei feared to look up, not wanting to see any tears in his eyes. He was her strong lord husband and king; she would not see him weep. “He has robbed me of all I loved. I am childless once again, and loveless. I have no one now.”

“You have me,” Cersei heard herself murmur, her gaze daring to meet his. She found it was met with hate, not love, not affection, not tenderness. They raked over her, each inch digging needles into her skin, until Cersei thought she might scream from the pain of heartache.

“I was wrong to wed you,” he said in an emotionless, cold tone. “I was wrong to ever lay eyes on you. It is because of my folly and ambition that I have lost her. Had I remained true, had I been more patient-” He stops suddenly, though the silence does little to ease her torment. Without saying the words, Rhaegar had told her that he did not love her, that he would never love her.

“I can give you children,” Cersei assures him in a hurried desperation, reaching out to cling to his sleeve. “I can give you babes to replace that ones that you’ve lost. Oh, my sweet lord, I will give you whatever you want, just please, do not… do not…” _Do not look at me like that. Like I am nothing. I am not nothing, I am a living, breathing girl, and I love you, I do, I love you._ Yet even as she sat as warm flesh before him, he treated her with no more regard than a stranger.

“That will not happen,” Rhaegar promised soundly, pulling his sleeve from her grasp. “I will not know love or lust until I join Lyanna in death. The gods have seen me fit to be punished by destroying each child I create, and I will accept this punishment in silence. I must atone.” His lip gave a strange twitch then, and his eyes turned empty and far away. “I am married to the kingdom now. You may do as you wish.” Then he stood and left her, with nary a backwards glance.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” Cersei finds herself insisting to an empty room. “You were supposed to hold me. You were supposed to kiss me. You were supposed to love me, with all the tenderness in the world.” Her voice was weak and she felt hollow, as if her soul had been carved out and thrown away.

 _What manner of victory of this?_ she asked the gods, and herself. _I have my husband, but not his love. I have a crown, but it is hollow. I don’t want it! I want him._

These girlish thoughts disappeared as soon as they arrived. Rhaegar had made it painfully clear that she would not have him, at least not in body or heart. He was just a title, her lord husband, her king, but no more. Cersei’s hand fluttered to her middle, now devoid of his seed, and she wonders, for just a moment, if Lyanna ever felt so empty after losing one of her babes.

Before she can stop herself, Cersei begins to weep. She lowers her face onto these strange sheets, tears streaming down her face as she twists her nightgown between her hands. Her shoulders shook as little wails escaped past her lips and became muffled into the bed. Jaime’s laugh returns to her head, now truly laughing at her, and Cersei wants to scream. She wanted to tear the room up and send the Red Keep crashing in on itself until it mirrored the state of her own heart. It would inevitably harden now, with no one to kiss her or touch her or treat her with kindness. Jaime would not do it; he was as good as dead. Rhaegar would make sure of that.

She quits her weeping after a short while, wiping frantically at her wet face with her sleeves. _A Queen may not weep,_ she told herself. Cersei would be cold, unfeeling. She would let herself be ignored, but not pitied. If the man she loved would not love her in return, then so be it.

 _I am a lioness of the Rock,_ she told herself heartily. _I will stand strong._

She had wanted to be Queen, and now she was. Unloved, unwanted, and scorned by her own husband too, but that was the price she would pay for power.

It was too bad that it was such a poor substitute for love.


	24. Lyanna VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I'll be bold  
> As well as strong  
> And use my head alongside my heart  
> So tame my flesh  
> And fix my eyes  
> A tethered mind freed from the lies  
> \-- _I Will Wait_ , Mumford & Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, the first parts of this chapter takes place before the start of Jaime's last chapter. Enjoy!

Lyanna was kneeling at her bedside, where her two babes slept peacefully, and prayed. She felt warm tears fall down her cheeks as she begged the gods for protection, for safe passage, for ease of travel. They had never answered her before, but she hoped they would now.

Planning to escape had been difficult from the start. Almost too difficult, in fact, when one considers that she had done it once before. But that was years ago, in a safer time, and she did not have two lives to defend over her own.

Lyanna had put away the bare minimum: a single change of clothes for herself and her children, food that she kept from the trays that had been brought to her room, and enough coin to get her to White Harbor, and then keep her afloat in Essos. She brought only golden dragons and silver stags, as any other metal would have no value across the sea. She had continued to read that tiring tome of the languages of the Free Cities, learning enough of the Pentoshi dialect to survive.

She had made up her mind to leave before Elia was born. Though Rhaegar’s kindness had nearly caused her to abandon the plan, Lyanna had only to look at her sweet children, innocent in their sleep and clueless to the enemies around them, to know that she could not stay. They were far more important than her aching heart.

She had stayed up for a number of nights sitting by her door and looking at the darkness of the feet outside to find some pattern of the guards’ coming and goings. It was not always Ser Jaime who stood outside, and he often switched off with another guard in order to rest or eat, or whatever it was that he did. This happened nightly, and Lyanna paid attention thus.

The night to run had come, and the gods were her last hope. She rose from her knees and went to the chair where she had arranged all that she would need. Across the arm was a cloth sling, cut from a bed sheet, which she tied across her chest. With gentle hands, Lyanna picked up Elia, careful not to wake her as she pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead. She was so sweet, her darling daughter. She did not cry much or want for many things. Her delicate beauty, that darling pink face, the enchanting stain on the side of her cheek, and her sweet, shallow breathing, had mesmerized Lyanna. Not once did she doubt that she would live; she was strong, like the woman she was named after. When she lowered her into the sling, she slept against her chest without waking or whining.

“Jon, darling,” she whispered to her sleeping son, rubbing his arm so as to wake him. He did, but not without lethargy; his eyes fluttered open and his gave a little whine, but he woke and looked up at her with her brother’s calm eyes. “Jon, we must go.”

“Where?” he asked with childish curiosity.

“Somewhere far,” she had told him in the barest whisper. “Somewhere magical. We shall be so happy.” And they would; they could, if they tried.

“Is papa going?” The question near broke her heart. She pulled her boy into her lap, careful not to bump him against his sister, and kissed the top of his curly head.

“No, darling,” she told him with a sad smile. “He is not.”

He said nothing after. He did not cry or throw a fit. He seemed to have accepted it better than a child twice his age; or perhaps, he was just too tired.

When the guard stepped away from her door, Lyanna slung their bag over her shoulder and picked Jon up, setting him on her hip. It was a lot to carry, and she had initially strained against the weight, but it would only need to be as far as the ground floor and the godswood, and they could make their escape. She slipped out quietly, carefully closing the door behind her, before making strides down the hall and all the passageways that had taken her from her room and into Rhaegar’s arms years ago.

When the mossy cushion of the godswood floor sunk beneath her shoes, Lyanna lowered Jon onto his feet. He wobbled for a moment, perhaps still tired, but reached up and held her hand as she led the way. The godswood was filled with its regular sounds: the crowing of ravens, the rustle of leaves, everything sounding like soft voices in her ears. When the heart tree came into sight, its white trunk a pale blue in the night, Lyanna could not help but smile.

The horse she had chosen the day before was still tied to a branch, awaiting her. She had ridden every horse in the stable before deciding on this very one. She was hardy, had a long stride, and she was, best of all, quiet. And naturally, she was a mare. Lyanna only ever rode mares. She steps to the horse, stroking her nose until she rose her lovely head and nuzzled her palm.

When she turned to pick up Jon and set him on the horse, she came face to face with a blade.

She knew it was a blade because it shone brightly, even in the dark, the way Ser Arthur’s Dawn did in the daylight. The tip of it stared her in the face, and for some time, Lyanna stared back. It was not ’til moments after this did she raise her eyes, to follow the sword to its bearer.

“Ser Jaime,” she said in something between a gasp and a murmur. Yes, it was her guard, but in many ways, it was not. He looked worn, his beautiful face turned tired and aged by something unseen. His hair, which was always perfectly in place, was disheveled. But these were only small things in comparison to his eyes. His eyes were flat, cold, unseeing. The pair pierced her like a knife in the dark. Lyanna looked at all this and more before she noticed how her heart thumped wildly against her chest.

She gripped Jon’s hand a little tighter and drew her arm over her daughter, still sleeping in the sling. She felt Jon inch closer until he let her hand go and wrapped his arms around her leg. She put her hand on his head, drawing his face into her skirts.

“Please, Ser Jaime,” she told the white, tired knight. The tip of his glimmering blade was but inches from her nose, but she had the strength to speak. “I beg of you, let us go.” He had to understand why she must go; he had seen the king’s actions, knew what it meant if she stayed, and heard her own laments, as mild as they were. Ser Jaime understood; or so she thought.

He remained quiet, lips pressed into a tight line. He walked around the horse so that there was no obstacle between them. At closer range, Lyanna saw pain his eyes, but it was a pain that deadened the emotion in them. Lyanna thought he looked cold, and it frightened her.

Licking her dry lips, she tried again. “You know I cannot stay. You know what will happen to me, to my children if I return.” Death awaited her in King’s Landing, in the form of sweet words, sweeter wine, and more dead babes, though now they would be that lived. She could not go; she would not go. “Without me, they will die. I must protect them. But I cannot do it here.” She takes a small step back, careful not to trip on a root as she did so. She saw the heart tree’s face in the corner of her eye, frowning, crying crimson. It unsettled her.

Ser Jaime lowered his blade to her throat, the edge of it planting a cold kiss on her skin. She shivered despite herself, and took another step back. Jaime was quicker; in a single graceful stride he moved to her side, further closing the gap between them. The blade came closer, and Lyanna pulled away until her back was to the heart tree. She felt Jon grip her leg tighter, perhaps filled with fear the way she was.

“You wouldn’t kill me,” she found herself boldly saying, through the trembling of her voice betrayed her. “Why would you?”

“I must,” he said, voice finally out into the open air, though it was hoarse and heavy. He took another step, bending his arm so he may get closer without cutting her throat.

“But we’re…” she began hopelessly, still shaking, still fearing. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Ser Jaime?” They talked, they laughed, they rode, and they were at ease when they were together. His presence would calm her bustling thoughts, and his protection felt true, felt safe. Gods, Lyanna thought he cared for her, at least enough to keep her secrets. She trusted him. Was she wrong to do so?

Her words did nothing to him. Nothing flashed into his eyes, no part of him stirred or twitched, he only remained mechanical, practiced, cold, cold, cold. This was Ser Jaime, but also not. There was a madness in his mind too complicated to understand, perhaps caused by love or fear or something greater, but he would not be swayed.

Lyanna moved her hand off Jon’s head reached out to touch Ser Jaime’s fingers, so close to her face they were as they gripped his sword. She felt the tension in him, taut as a bowstring. She pitied him. Nay, this was not Ser Jaime the protector; this was Ser Jaime doing something he did not wish to do, something his heart warned against but his mind insisted on. Lyanna understood that feeling.

Her fingers trailed over his knuckles, which trembled with effort, but he did not stir. Then, in Lyanna’s single act of courage, she reached up to touch his cheek. She looked him square in the eye as she did, wanting him to see her, truly look at her. He was still flat and cold, and she trembled as she touched him, but she understood. Her fingertips brushed over his skin as soft as a whisper before she pulled back, hand returning to Jon’s head.

“Alright, Ser Jaime,” she said told him, trying to be brave. “Do whatever brings you peace.” Then her eyes flit to slumbering Elia, then to sweet Jon, who looked up at the knight with familiarity, before looking back to Ser Jaime’s still face. “I have one request. Please, kill me first.” It pained her to say it, to be so craven, and too unarmed to fight, but this was one selfish thing she wished to allow herself. “I don’t want to see them die.” Her babes, her darling children who had to fight to be born, who came into the harsh world under suffocating circumstances, but they lived. They were her flesh and blood and the only thing she loved greater than her brothers, and Rhaegar.

The sword’s cold edge suddenly pressed against her throat, though not with force. She could still speak, still breathe, though soon she would not.

She would not close her eyes to death, as they remained on Ser Jaime. How cruel, that he be the one to end her! The one she believed in, the one she found good in. She had loved him as she would love any friend, had she had any. There was only him. “Thank you for being my friend,” she found herself whispering, blinking away tears. “You have made me very happy. I pray you may one day find happiness, Ser Jaime.” With those words, Lyanna turned Jon’s cheek so his face would be in her skirts, and she held Elia tighter, pressing her to her breast.

 _My sweet babes,_ she thought as she tilted her chin up, to allow Ser Jaime’s sword to run smooth and quick. _My only joy._ The rough bark of the weirwood dug into her back as the carved face weeped into her dress. Her eyes looked to the red leaves overhead, black in the night, and she though of how fitting it was for a Stark to die in a godswood. How perfect.

“I cannot,” she hears Ser Jaime rasp as the blade quivered against her throat. “Damn you, Cersei, I cannot.”

 _Cersei,_ Lyanna muses. _His sister._ It seemed too late to have a revelation, but her eyes widened as they flew to Ser Jaime, covering his downturned face in his hand.

The sword’s weight slowly lessened until it was gone altogether, sheathed in its holster. Lyanna could only exhale, having held in a breath greater than herself. She watched as the knight glowed in his pale armor, scaled like a dragon’s tail, untouched, unscathed. When he raised his eyes to her, they were wide, glassy, and so _sad_ , as if the battle he fought inside himself had broken him up. Lyanna thinks she might rush into his arms to provide him comfort, but she would not. Elia slept against her breast, and Lyanna was still his Queen.

“Ser Jaime?” she asks, though there is no question she wished to pose. She only wanted him to respond; he does, with a blink of his eyes and a hand running over his worn face.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, though he looked down to Jon. “I’m sorry, your grace.”

Lyanna shakes her head, brushing it aside. His madness had passed; there was no reason to dwell on it. “Will you help me, ser?” she asks him, hopping he would say yes.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes.” He stepped toward her; Lyanna did not flinch as he did, not even when he picked up Jon and set him on the saddle of the horse. “Hold the reins,” he spoke plainly to Jon, as if he were an adult and not a boy of four. Still, Jon did as he was told. Jaime then turned to her, his eyes on her bag.

“What do you carry with you?” he asked, his voice low yet firm. There was an energy about him that was hard to explain, as if he were trying to move as quickly as possible to make up for past indiscretion.

“Food, gold, and clothes,” she answered quickly.

“Are your jewels with you? Your crown?”

“Gods, no,” she replied. What use did she have of those things?

“You ought to have taken them,” he said. “You can sell them in Essos; they will fetch a fair price, and it is better to keep them out of your rooms. There are many reasons to take a queen, and one is for her wealth.”

Lyanna blanched, surprised by his intelligence. She could have kicked herself for being so stupid, for having thought of everything except this. “How can I return now?” she asked him, frowning.

“I will fetch them for you,” he responded with a nod. Before she could say anything else, he bounded out of sight, toward the direction of the castle.

Lyanna busied herself by rummaging through her things, making sure that she had all that she needed. Afterward, she reached up to Jon, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep as he gripped the reins and looked blankly at her.

“We will be leaving soon my love,” she assured him, giving a small smile. He gave a yawn in return. Lyanna kissed his knee, then rubbed it.

Jaime returned shortly, with her jewelry and baubles clenched in one hand with her crown and Jon’s rested in the crook of his arm. She opened her bag for him, and he dropped the jewelry in, but stowed the crowns in the larger saddlebag. Without skipping a beat, his hands moved to the saddle itself, pulling its harnesses, testing their tightness. Lyanna watched him, filled with gratitude. A strange feeling for a man who had almost killed her, but one she could not help but have. Ser Jaime was a good man, a true knight, and his greatest fault was that he loved his sister. She could hardly hate him.

When he turned back to her, Lyanna smiled. “Thank you, Ser-“

In one movement, he had cut her words short and picked her up off her feet, and onto the saddle of the horse. Lyanna blinked, gathering her wits about her again, before settling properly into the saddle. Jon leaned back against her as soon she did, his head touching the edge of his sister’s swaddled feet.

“Take this with you,” Ser Jaime demanded before pulling a dagger from his side and reaching it out to her. Lyanna hesitated before taking it from him, holding it up in the moonlight to briefly admire it. It was of fine, clear steel, with a golden ruby-encrusted hilt. Lannister colors, and Lannister quality, but a weapon was a weapon.

“Thank you,” she breathed, wanting to weep at his kindness. She put it between her breasts, the safest place she could think of.

“When you get the chance, stop somewhere and cut your hair,” he continued to tell her, resolve still set in his eyes. “If you can find dyes, then color your hair. You must look nothing like yourself.” Lyanna nodded, committing his advice to memory. “Do you know where you will be going?”

“White Harbor,” she answered. “It is a short way south of here. I aim to take a boat to Essos.”

“Which city will you go to?”

“Pentos,” Lyanna responded. It seemed the best: no slavery, no excess of debauch, no violence. And she had studied the dialect most out of that bloody boring book.

“Be careful,” he said anyway, his concern seeming genuine. “And your grace, I’m-“

Lyanna shook her head. “Do not say it, Ser Jaime,” she commanded, hoping to draw the sorrow out of his eyes. “No more apologies.” He nodded, seemingly relieved. Though Lyanna ought to have left there and then, so as to not waste the darkness of the night, she found herself hesitating. She could not leave so abruptly, without a single way of goodbye. Yet at the same time, she did not want to say goodbye. She wanted to see him again.

“Ser Jaime,” she began tentatively. “I know you are a knight, and I am a Queen…” She paused, trying to find the proper words to put this. “But once I am across the sea, I become a Queen no longer. I shall be Rose.” This was the name she chose for herself, a name that wasn’t Westerosi at all, but was simple enough. “And I should like to have a friend.”

She sees understanding flash into Ser Jaime’s eyes as she said this. He cleared his throat before nodding, and turning his face away. She wished to touch his cheek again, to let him know that she cherished him and was indebted to him, but he was too far and Lyanna was too hesitant.

Instead, she gives a smile, and pulls the reins to the right. “I shan’t forget your kindness, ser.”

“You call threat of death kindness,” he grumbled to the side.

“I call that madness,” she tells him. “It is you who are kind.”

He looked at her incredulously, eyes comically wide before he gives a smile of his own. “Don’t go around telling anyone that,” he said in a voice clear from worry. “I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

“Of course, Ser Jaime.”

She gave another tug of the reins and dug her heels into the mare; with a whinny, Lyanna was off, prepared to go somewhere far, far away, where dragons would not hold her and lions would not swipe at her children.

Isolation, loneliness, and heartbreak was to await her, but it was a small price to pay for life.

* * *

Lyanna cursed her luck for what might have been the hundredth time.

The first had been outside of White Harbor, sitting on the grass in a small patch of forest with Elia sleeping on the ground, wrapped in the sling. Jon had sat up, rubbing his eyes beside her. Lyanna had been cutting her hair, or at least trying to. She had wrapped her thick curls around her fist and took Ser Jaime’s dagger to it. The weapon was sharp enough, and yet her hair seemed to resist it, dulling the edge. Lyanna had moved it back and forth until her hair began to be cut away, strand by strand. She was halfway through when Elia began to cry as loudly as her little lungs allowed her, the sound of it causing her to drop the dagger and for Jon to begin crying himself. That was when she first cursed her luck, with her hair half long, half short and trying to shush two weeping children.

The second had been when she learned there would no boat leaving for Essos for another week and a half. It was an old innkeeper who had told her this between the smacking of her toothless gums before offering a room for a halfpenny a night. Lyanna might have cursed her luck another thirty times up in that dingy room. She would not leave it until the boat came, in fear that someone would recognize her. That was the last thing Lyanna needed: to be caught, and sent back to King’s Landing while having to explain why she cut her hair, why she took her children, and why she was in White Harbor, inquiring about a boat to Essos.

So stay she did, and in the meantime she had paid the innkeeper to find her a dye for her hair. She had come back with a strange glass bottle filled with a liquid the color of night. When she poured it over her head, staining her hands with the dye, it had come away on her head a deep, dark black. It was not like Elia Martell’s lovely glossy locks, but a color that was dull and deep. But on her cropped hair, its uneven ends reaching just past her ears, it did not look pretty or pleasant at all. But that was not important; she looked nothing like herself, and that was all that mattered.

When the day came that the ship to Essos was to arrive, Lyanna had paid for her last night, threw a cloak over her shoulders, wrapped Elia in the sling, and held Jon’s hand the whole way to the harbor. It was not the Inner Harbor that was by the Wolf’s Den, as the Manderlys had taken to calling it. It was the Outer Harbor, one that was large and grand and filled with ships. Men bustled on the docks, unloading ships, shouting curses and singing bawdy songs while others stepped off the docked boats. She noticed some who looked like foreigners, some with hair dyed garish colors, and others who seemed as Westerosi as they come. Her eyes did not linger long on any of these people; she kept looking to the docks, waiting for her boat to freedom to pull in.

The innkeeper had told her that it was named Sea’s Storm, and to look for a figurehead of a woman holding a trident. Lyanna did not know how long she stood in the sun, listening to the noises of the sea and the bellowing of sailors, but she waited, though each passing second felt like a hundred years. Jon had begun to complain at one point, but she could hardly be distracted.

Her sight did, however, sometimes stray at the rock in the harbor. It was gigantic, tall, towering over the harbor, casting its heavy shadow over the waters. The color was that of sea foam, and it stood sturdy as the waters crashed around it. Lyanna thought she saw seals on it, and from time to time she would hear a bark, and she would swear it came from the rock. The name of the structure escaped her now, learned from a teacher years ago, but she knew very well it belonged to the Manderlys, and they ceratinly knew her. It brought her unease.

Her discomfort swiftly turned into anxiety once the bow of a ship broke through the fog. ’Twas not a large ship by any means, perhaps enough to hold a handful of people and a crew, but it bore a woman carved from wood, her face delicate and sweet, as she crossed a trident over her bare breasts. On the side, cut from silver, was the words _Sea’s Storm_.

Lyanna began to pull Jon quickly to the docks when he suddenly dug his heels into the ground, halting her.

“Jon!” she scolded, her frazzled temper getting the better of her. She looked down to her stubborn son, who pointed somewhere down the road.

“Look, mama,” he urged her. “It’s papa’s men.”

“Papa’s—?” Her eyes followed his finger to find a score of armored men on horses, led by a man in the scaled white armor of the Kingsguard. Some of the soldiers dismounted to enter nearby inns and homes, while others pressed on to go deeper into White Harbor.

Lyanna’s gaze did not linger long enough to discern the knight in white. She quickly scooped Jon up in her arms, careful not to disturb Elia, and pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her head. Her feet took quick, short steps to the docks, where the Sea’s Storm was pulling in. The crowd assembled there did well to cover her, but it hardly lessened her apprehension. Her heart thumped against her ribs, the sound of it pounding like drums in her head. She ought to have known that Rhaegar would search for her, that he wound send men to find her, wherever she might be, but she didn’t think it would be so soon.

As the Sea’s Storm dropped its anchor, sailors threw ropes over the side for men on the docks to bind to the masts there. A door opened from the side, and a staircase folded out. The first to exit was a man with a dark complexion, short and squat with his hair dyed a bright yellow. He stood off to the side as people poured out of the cabins, some whose faces looked green with sickness.

All the while, Lyanna heard the galloping of horses beating in time to her own wild heart.

She pushed herself to the front of the queue already assembled, ignoring the curses and shouts thrown at her. There was still a larger man before her who was at the very front of a the line. When she tried to move past him, she was pushed back with a sharp thrust of his elbow and a scathing stare. “Gods,” Lyanna cursed underneath her breath. The court had been terrible, but at the very least they weren’t violent.

People continued to file out of the ship, which was much larger than she first took it for, with the masses that seemed to have resided inside. She could feel her pulse in her throat, as time seemed to go by grindingly slow, falling on her nerves like sharp stones.

 _Please,_ she found herself begging. _Please, hurry, by the gods._

When the last person left the boat, Lyanna gave a heavy exhale. The man before her was slow to step forward, but Lyanna followed closely behind, even when Jon began to wriggle in her arms, twisting his head back behind her.

“Jon, please,” she found herself pleading to him. “Please, behave, my love.”

“But it’s Ser—“

“By the order of the King, let no one on the boat!” a strong voice bellowed out behind her. Lyanna froze for a moment, her mouth going as dry as sand as everyone in line looked behind them. The man in front of her had taken pause too, just as he was about to drop his fare into the yellow-haired man’s hand.

 _Lyanna,_ her own voice began to hiss at her. _Lyanna you must do something!_

But what? What could she do? Run and garner attention? Even with her hair cut and colored, every man in the Kingsguard knew her face. It was why Rhaegar had sent them, not doubt.

Lyanna took Jon’s head and buried it in her shoulder, so that his face didn’t betray her too. She held the edge of the hood over her face as much as she could, hoping to at least hide her freckled nose. Her head remained bowed, looking down to her daughter who began to flutter her lavender eyes open.

_Please, oh please…_

She heard footsteps come advancing behind her, stopping every few seconds before continuing again. The sound grew closer and closer, the clanging of metal on the wooden docks becoming louder, more suffocating. In a moment of fear, and perhaps cowardice, Lyanna shut her eyes as the noise stopped behind her.

The heel of a hand pushed back on her shoulder, twisting her around to face the man leading the investigation. At the jolt, Lyanna opened her eyes, and came to face the last man she had hoped to see.

_Ser Arthur._

What man knew her face better, than those in her own family? The cloth covering half her face seemed useless now as his dark, familiar eyes bore into her. Even Jon betrayed her, by whispering “Arthur” with giddy breathlessness. Ser Arthur Dayne was his favorite knight.

He continued to stare, though gods knew how long. Lyanna thought to sob, as the knight who was once her friend, once her confidant and champion, who had since after the war looked at her as some might a disease-ridden rat, would surely return her to Rhaegar and spare no detail of her treasonous sin.

“Please, Ser Arthur,” she whispers in a last act of desperation, meeting those sharp eyes. “I beg you, ser.”

He said nothing. His hand slipped from her shoulder, then he turned to the men behind him and shook his head. Without sparing a second glance, the knight turned on his heel, his heavy footsteps against the dock fading into the distant galloping of horses.

Lyanna thinks she’s never loved a man more than in that very moment.

As she paid her fare to the yellow-haired man and settled in her small cabin with its hard bed, Lyanna allowed herself to weep. Jon wept with her, wet face in her lap, as he mumbled incoherently.

After she had ceased her sobbing, she stroked Jon’s head, and began to speak to him. “We’re going to be so happy, dearest Jon,” she murmured to him as he cried softly. “We will see so many new things, eat so many new sweets. We’ll live in some place pretty, with plenty of children like you. And when you grow up, darling boy, you may be whatever you like.” He raised his head at this, bleary grey eyes meeting hers. “You may be a soldier, a knight, a scholar, or even a wizard, my sweet. Whatever you want to be, you can be, and shall be.” The freedom was not for her, after all, but for her children. She was giving them a chance at life without construct, without the walls and the cages.

“Can I be a prince?” he asked her innocently, sniffling still.

“My darling Jon,” she crooned to him with a smile. “You will always be a prince. No one may take that from you.”

He gave a little nod before lowering his head back to her lap. Lyanna’s eyes went from him to Elia, who pouted sweetly up at her, pale purple eyes seeming to understand every word.

 _I am robbing them both of a father,_ Lyanna thinks mournfully. She presses a kiss to Elia’s forehead, then to the stain on her cheek.

This was the last sacrifice, and perhaps the hardest, that she had to make.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The knock at the door surprises her. No one comes to visit her, save for Rhin, the woman who demands rent money each month. But Lyanna had already paid her rent, for this moon's turn and the one after. She thinks for a moment that it may be the mother of one the children she was instructing on the Common Tongue, but that would be highly uncommon. She did not hold her lessons in her room.

She reluctantly leaves Jon’s side on the wooden floor. In his hands was a book on Bastard Valyrian, not the same she read from in Westeros, and he had been trying to wrap his tongue around the foreign tongue. Lyanna was learning with him, it seemed, though he picked it up much quicker than she could ever hope to do. It was often that he translated for her in the marketplace, prompting her to flush with pride. Jon had been quick to adjust, thank the gods, though he often woke with night terrors, where he would beg to see his father. "Papa, I want papa," he would cry to her. Sometimes, Lyanna shared his sentiments. These yearnings proved hard to soothe.

Lyanna glance over to Elia who laid on her back before him, kicking her little legs and pursing her lips as Jon spoke as eloquently as a child could. His voice brought her both calm and joy, as it did with Lyanna. Ensuring the two were fine, she goes to the door.

With a moment’s hesitation, Lyanna opens it, still wondering who it may be. A gasp escapes her lips despite herself, and she cannot help but put a hand over her excited heart.

“You… what are you…?”

He bowed low, curly hair sweeping over his unarmored, uncloaked shoulders.

“I came to serve my queen,” he imparted with smile.

“I'm afraid, good ser, that I am queen no longer,” she says wit impunity, still shocked. She had shed all queenly attachments, sold all her courtly jewels and her crown so she may live in comfort in Pentos. She kept Jon's crown, however, unable to part with it. 

“And I am a knight no longer,” he responds with a shrug. “A sellsword, perhaps. I’ve yet to decide.”

She studies his face, still as fair as she remembered, and finds that the pain in it had largely evaporated. Traces of it lingered still, but even so it seemed ready to fade.

“You must understand, ser,” she began, and when he opened his mouth to interrupt, she stopped him. “That I have no interests beyond that of my children’s. If you bring with you danger, or deceit, or... lust, then I cannot accept you.” Lyanna took her own set of vows when she crossed the sea: love no one but your children.

“I assure you, my lady, I bring none of that.”

She studies him a little longer, then gives a nod. “Very well. You are welcome into my home, ser.”

“Please, your grace, use my name,” he insisted with a grin, stepping in to the sound of Jon's excited gasp.

“My apologies,” she responded just as slyly. “Ser _Jaime_.”


	25. Ned III | Rhaegar VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned & Rhaegar mourn, but also find hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So. It's been... 3 months? Holy shit. I'm so sorry. So so so so so sorry. SO SORRY. I'M TRASH.

**Ned**

As an unsettling echo to the past, Ned returned to Winterfell without even his sister’s body, leaving him feeling ill and confused. But if her first disappearance years ago had roiled his stomach, than this one had troubled his mind.

"There is nothing you could have done, my lord," Catelyn's kind voice assures him, her soft hand patting his. Her eyes are rimmed red from crying, no doubt grieving over the queen she grew close to and the babes who died far too young. "You could not have foreseen this."

And yet somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Ned feels like he could have. He could have assigned men of his own, men who were strong and loyal to him to guard Lyanna's doors, to allow none to enter, especially not Jaime Lannister. He had always felt he could not trust him after all, for as much as the king trusted him, he was a Lannister, and men of filthier natures could not be found in another house.

Perhaps if he had at least tried the dreams would stop coming at night. They were visions of his sister dead, his sister alive, his sister sobbing and smiling, his sister as a toddling child, as a frightened woman. Then some nights he saw her children, crowns atop her little heads as blood ran from those gilded circlets and dripped down their soft chins. Elia, she had named the last one, a Dornish name for a Valyrian princess, her eyes a bright purple and the side of her face a wine red...

He could not write it off as Rhaegar's folly, though he ought to. The man lost his wife and children a second time, in another fell swoop, and the distress had raged liked a storm behind his dark eyes— a dead man's eyes, ones Ned had seen before, in those who were trapped in a nightmare and begged to be awoken. But Ned would not wake him. Even if he could, he would not. Part of this folly was his own, and perhaps eternal torment was a proper punishment.

But the king’s grief would not settle his own. _A body, that is all I want,_ he had prayed to the gods one night. _Let her return home. Let her rest beside her brother. Do not let her die so far from him._ He wondered if Brandon had found her already, somewhere in the heavens. But perhaps she was so far that Brandon still searched. He would search forever, Ned thinks, in order to bring his sister home. Ned could not.

Moons pass without hope. Jaime Lannister has disappeared into the wind, though the King sends his men still to scour every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and had even begun to deliver them overseas to Essos. The price on his head grows higher and higher until it seemed impossible that the kingdom’s coffers held so much coin. Yet the King was still wed to Cersei Lannister, and it seemed that the gold of Casterly Rock was helping to catch its Lord too.

Ned did not concern himself with politics. He did not write to the King. The raven that would be sent to King’s Landing traveled no more. Maester Luwin had even told him that it died suddenly, and that a new one will need to be retrained. Ned didn’t quite care.

His mood does not lift until the eve of Sansa’s third nameday, when Catelyn traced circles on his chest and told him she was with child. Their lovemaking had lost its frequency until just recently, where their shared grief turned into urgent passion, and to make up for lost time it now seemed they could hardly keep their hands off each other.

“Truly? A child?” he asked her, giving her shoulder a soft squeeze.

“Yes, my love,” she admitted, a comely blush upon her cheeks. “I have not bled.” Her blue eyes met his as he read the love in their depths. His hand trailed down her arm to the flat of her stomach. He felt a jolt run through him, followed by giddy excitement. He smiled broadly, leaning in to press a kiss to her open mouth. Her hand touched his cheek before they went to the back of his neck, twining her fingers in his hair.

“By the gods!” he whispers against her mouth, still smiling. “You have given me the most joyous news any man could hear. Gods bless you, Cat!” His lips went to her throat, where he felt the vibrations of her amused chuckle. Her nails dragged down his back as his mouth moved further and further down, laying a trail of kisses that weaved over her breasts and down to her stomach. Then he places one more in the inside of her thigh. “When I am done with you, I shall write—“

He takes a sudden pause, once again aware of the awful truth. _Write who?_ he wondered to himself. There was only one person he wrote of his mirths, and he had not written her in years.

“Ned,” Catelyn murmurs softly, recognizing his mistake. She slips out from underneath him, matching his pose by sitting on her legs, their knees touching. Ned looks down at her through bleary eyes, his breath knocked out of him when he looked upon her. She was beautiful, his wife, beyond compare. Her auburn hair was splayed loose across her freckled shoulders, the tips of her round breasts peeking out from the lovely locks. Her stomach bore the scars of carrying children, scars he loved to kiss and touch.

_And she is mine,_ he reminded himself. _As I am hers._ There were no more intrusive thoughts of Brandon and his rights. He would not allow them in his head anymore. His mind, and Winterfell, was better off with one less ghost.

“Cat,” he murmured in return, cupping her face in his hand. “Cat, forgive me.”

“What for, my love?” she asked of him, placing her hands on his thighs. Her soft touch brought him immediate calm as his muscles loosened and relaxed.

“Forgive me, for I cannot hold back anymore,” he returns in a voice that began to quiver. “I love you, my sweet, darling wife. I love you more than I can say.” In moments he found himself folded in her arms, with his head beneath her chin and his cheek pressed to her heart.

“Why does that need forgiveness, my love?” she asked, kissing the top of his head. “Your love is no burden. Not when I love you in return.”

“I swear by the Old Gods and the New that I will bring no more pain your way,” he swears, the beating of her heart giving him life anew. “Never fear to speak freely before me. You are all I wish to protect. You are all I want.”

“And I want you,” she murmurs in return. “I love you, Ned, I do.”

When their lips met again with a taste of salt and sweetness, Ned felt a warmth start in his chest and spread throughout the rest of his body. This was happiness: his lady wife in his arms, their children soundly asleep in their beds with more to come and fill the rooms.

He would tell Lyanna of his joy, though not in writing. He would say it to the gods who gave him his fortune, and pray they would speak of it to his sister. Then perhaps he could make her smile, one last time.

* * *

 

**Rhaegar**  

 

He woke to his dreams again, and found no chance at a return to sleep. They were much the same as they always were: images of joy juxtaposed with images of horror. In one moment he would be warm and contented by a flash of her brown curls splayed across the pillows, a coy smile on her red lips, and in the next he would see stains of her life’s blood on her throat and mouth, her grey eyes flat and dead. If it were not Lyanna, then it was Jon, giggling and fiddling with books he could not read, or Visenya looking sweetly up at him with the stain on her face a lighter shade than he remembered; this would last for a few honeyed moments before the two were limp and lifeless, with bloody slits where their soft throats should be.

His breath came to him in short grabs, his heart beating hard against his chest. He heard the noise in his head, thumping on the inside until he felt he would burst.

_Peace,_ he growled inwardly. _Oh gods, grant me some peace!_

Peace came, but only in the form of silence. The images were already burned into his eyes, promising no rest for the rest of the night. He thought to just lay back against the pillows, burrowing his nose in them until Lyanna’s familiar scent eased his mind, but he knew such an endeavor was useless. The comfort was only temporary. The only thing that would put him at ease would be his head against her warm breast, her thin arms wrapped around him, rocking him back into slumber.

Exasperated and perhaps half-mad, Rhaegar throws the sheets off him, getting to his feet in muted frustration. He storms out of the bedchamber with Ser Barristan not far behind, keeping watching over his volatile king.

Rhaegar did not know where his feet aimed to lead him, but they took him farther than he had expected until he stood in the center of the Great Sept. Moonlight poured through the faceted windows, bringing a cold glow to the corners of the seven walls. His head ached at the sight as his strange surroundings contended with the gore that plastered itself to the surface of his brain. In another ghostly tug, he was pulled toward an altar set before a statue of stone.

Rhaegar focused his eyes tip he found himself looking upon the likeness of the Mother with a babe sculpted into the crook of her arm. Her smile was soft and warm. He falls to his knees, though not of his own will. It was exhaustion that granted him weakness; he had not slept well in over two moon’s turns.

In this dim light, she could be Lyanna carrying Jon or Visenya. She could also be Elia, with Aegon, or Rhaenys. Rhaegar cannot decide who she might be, though the Mother was softer and more supple than either of them had been. Lyanna had been all litheness and muscle, and Elia little more than skin and bones.

“Mother,” the word escapes his lips in a ragged breath. His hands are opened palm-up upon the altar, his head tilted back to look upon her smiling lips. “Is it not your charge to protect those bring life?” She does not respond, though Rhaegar half expects her to. “Gentle Mother, font of mercy,” the words of her song started on his lips. His voice is almost broken from disuse, having not sung for anyone for so very long. “Gentle Mother, strength of women.” He licks his lips and aims to continue, but no noise escapes. The lyrics have evaded his mind, but the women of his life return.

“It is true, Elia was not devout,” Rhaegar explains. “Perhaps she did not pray as often as she ought. Nor did I. Did you take her from me for this?” The Mother stayed silent, but somehow this angers him. “Our children were anointed by the High Septon, Mother.” He clenches then unclenches his fist as his breathing return to its natural rhythm. He bows his head perhaps to humble himself to her. “Lyanna followed the Old Gods,” he rasps, remembering how he had taken her maidenhead beneath the heart tree, not long after they said their vows under it. The red leaves had crunched beneath the cloak she laid on, a color that matched the smear of blood on her thigh. “But she confessed that she prayed to you whenever a babe took root inside her.” Babes washed away by moon tea, he remembered. “Is your power truly so small in the face of tansy and wormwood?”

Silence. It is what he should have expected it, but it maddens him regardless.

_Gods!_ he seethes, curling his upturned palms into fists. _You are a king with no power. A man with no courage. The gods have mocked your weakness and sent your loved ones into the grave._

“I will have no more children, Mother,” he promises, squeezing his eyes shut. “I do not need your protection any longer.” He nearly spits the words out, feeling disgusted by himself and the mockery the gods have put him through. What was the use of living if he could not have the woman he loved at his side? Where was the point in waking up each morning when he couldn’t have Jon crawl into bed, jostling him awake? Or hear Visenya’s soft cries for milk in the middle of the night? If he came to an empty bed where he could not whisper in his lover’s ear, could not kiss every inch of her, could not part her legs and make love to her, then what was the point of retiring to it?

Rhaegar shook his head. _No, no. I do not need any of that; pleasure I can live without. Please, Mother, just give me a sign. Show me she’s alive and content, even if it is a dream, even if it is a lie. Take this bitterness and give me sweetness. Grant me strength to carry on._

Nothing changes. The lighting remains the same, the Mother remains still and smiling, and his loved ones still bleed out in his mind. Rhaegar buries his face in his hands, rubbing his tired eyes with the heel of his palms.

“What am I to do? What am I to do?”

 

* * *

 

“You, Lord Tywin Lannister, revoke any and all ties with your son, Jaime Lannister?”

Rhaegar’s tired eyes flew to the lord in question, watching the proud man’s reaction. The lord’s face is blank, stoic, hard as the rock he lived on. He looked comfortable standing before the small council in the throne room, hands folded behind his back. Undaunted.

“I do,” he says, and his mouth quickly returns to the line it was before.

“He has been stripped of all titles and may not have another bestowed upon him,” Jon Connington continues, reading Rhaegar’s orders. “He cannot inherit any coin, lands, or property. And should he return to Westeros, you cannot provide sanctuary, coin, or assistance; if you do so, you will be charged with high treason, where the only punishment is death. Is that understood, my lord?”

Tywin nods. “I disown him completely. He is no son of mine.”

_So quick to give him up,_ Rhaegar notes bitterly, narrowing his eyes. _There is no loyalty in Lannister blood._ His own Lannister queen sat beside him in cold silence, looking flatly at her father. Her very presence brought him discomfort; he has shifted in the throne so that he leaned away from her, but she remained present in the corner of his eye with her golden hair and the slope of her nose.

“You deny any participation in the murders of the Queen Lyanna, and the King’s trueborn children and heirs, Prince Jon Targaryen and Princess Visenya Targaryen?”

Their names lend a burning sensation to Rhaegar’s throat. He finds himself closing his eyes to avoid looking at any Lannisters, and to conjure up the images of his sweet, dead family. Lyanna and her freckled nose, Jon and his bright eyes, Visenya and her birthmark. They were dead, yes, but in his heart they were alive. He tastes joy in his mouth for a moment before it turned bitter and revolting on his tongue.

“I had no part in the crime,” Tywin announces firmly, the flatness of his voice unchanging. Rhaegar opens his eyes to find that the man was meeting his gaze, his cold green eyes locking with his. Rhaegar returns the look to search for a lie, but he could not; he could only see Lyanna’s sweet smile.

“And what of the moon tea, my lord? Did you have any part in poisoning the Queen and killing the King’s unborn heirs?” Jon was getting more aggressive in his speech, the gruffness of his voice becoming more pronounced. He enjoyed fighting on his king’s behalf, Rhaegar knew.

“I had no knowledge of this treason,” Tywin replied. And indeed, no proof could be found that tied the moon tea to the Lannisters. Any evidence of the sort had died with the handmaiden who served it. And with no proof, there could be no trial. And with no trial, there was no punishment.

But Rhaegar wanted to punish someone. He wanted to find the one that brought his wife so much suffering, the one that washed away all of his babes in blood on Lyanna’s white thighs. But he searched and scoured the castle, interrogated every serving girl, every lord and lady, searched every room and came away with nothing.

Nothing. That is all Rhaegar had ever had in the past few moons. No bodies, no joy, no triumph, no honor, and no proof. He did not lust or love or fight; with his family’s death he found no hate or a need for vengeance, but an emptiness. Rhaegar felt hollow, with a hole where his heart should be.

“Then drop to your knees, my lord, and swear your fealty to our great king,” Jon concludes with the shadow of a smirk on his face. He liked to give orders, but more importantly, he liked to see men kneel to his beloved king.

Tywin meets Rhaegar’s eye briefly before bowing his head and dropping to one knee. His right hand was balled into a fist over his heart. “I swear my fealty to you, King Rhaegar Targaryen, and am forever your loyal servant, your grace.”

Rhaegar glowers at him in silence. _I don’t want your fealty,_ Rhaegar wanted to say. _I want your son’s head on a block, not your empty words._ But the room remains still and quiet as they await their king’s response until the moment’s respite passes from thoughtfulness to awkwardness. Rhaegar himself feels lifeless looking upon him, his body tired of living. It is not until he feels a cold touch on his hand does feeling return; he looks to his hand to find nothing but an apparition, a ghost of Lyanna’s thin fingers over his.

It feels as if air had entered his lungs for the first time in years. He heard his own heartbeat in his ears, felt his blood rushing through him. He turns his gaze back to Lord Tywin, who still looked to the floor with a grimace. Unwarranted anger swells in his chest at the sight, and Rhaegar scowls.

“I ought to do as my father had done,” he hears himself saying in a voice stronger than he possessed. “And punish the traitor’s father along with the son.” The silence shifts from awkward to uncomfortable once the words leave his lips. They had come from his bout of strength, but now, as Lyanna’s touch faded, he felt himself wilt again. He fell back into the iron throne, closes his eyes shut again, and waves his hand. “All of you. Leave my sight.” He stays with his eyes closed until the noise of moving bodies ceases, and the footsteps fade away.

_I am tired, gods help me,_ Rhaegar laments. _I do not know what to do._

He opens his eyes to find Ser Arthur standing off to the side, his back against the wall. He did not look at Rhaegar; his eyes were fixed forward in cold concentration, a grim expression on his dark face.

“I am lost, Ser Arthur,” Rhaegar says aloud, sighing raggedly. “What do I do?” He had asked Arthur for much advice lately, but time and time again he had not heeded it. The roiling in his stomach tells him he should have; but now it was too late, and this was no more than a prayer for a sign.

“You do what you want, your grace,” Arthur returned flatly. “You are the King.”

Rhaegar gives a humorless chuckle. “King,” he mumbles. “What use is such a title if you cannot have what you want? I am king, but I cannot capture a murderer. I am king, but I cannot throw out the Lannisters without proof of treason. I am king, but I cannot raise the dead.”

“Do you believe you deserve such power, your grace?”

Rhaegar chuckles again. “No,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “No. But I want it.”

_Instead, all I have is a throne._ He taps his fingertips on the arm of it now, feeling the cold iron beneath on his skin. _A throne and an empty heart._

“Wanting is never enough,” Ser Arthur returns cryptically. Rhaegar knows his meaning; all Arthur wanted was Elia.

“No, it never is.” Rhaegar closes his eyes to rest, but unbidden images rise to intrude instead. Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon burnt and innocent. Elia’s kind voice speaks over the sight, telling it’s not his fault, the he tried. The reassurance only makes him feel worse; it was his fault, all of it, and there was no way to fix things. But Elia fades and Lyanna comes into sight, brown curls swept over one shoulder as Viseyna suckled from her breast and Jon sat smiling in her lap. There was blood on all of them, staining their hands and mouths and clothes, but they breathed, looked alive.

In this memory, they were alive, but dead, caught somewhere between a breath and still silence.

In this memory, they were like him.

“I should have loved her more,” Rhaegar laments aloud, bowing his head into his hands. “I should have told her I loved her. I should have believed her, heeded her, _trusted_ her… Oh gods, what have I done?”

_It’s not your fault,_ Elia’s voice murmurs.

“It is. It is my fault,” Rhaegar hisses. “Gods take me for it! It is all my fault.” His shoulders shake but no sobs come out; he cannot weep upon this unfeeling throne, though he wished to. On the throne he was a king, father to his people. It was only in Lyanna’s arms that he could feel anything less.

His head snaps up suddenly as he takes in the empty throne room. The shadows of the dragons’ skulls loom above him, their mouths open as if they may breathe fire at any moment.

_If this is to be my fate,_ Rhaegar muses angrily upon his throne. _Then I shall accept it. If the gods have seen me fit to be king, then king I shall be._

“Call Lord Doran to my solar,” he says to Arthur with new fire in blood. “Tell him there are changes I wish to make.”

Arthur bows. “As you wish, your grace.”

_I have had all taken from me but my kingdom. If this is what I have been allowed to keep, then I shall. I will live for the realm. I will atone._

He rises, finding strength in his revelation. He takes quick strides out of the throne room as he made his way to his solar.

_I will love my kingdom as I have loved her,_ he swears to whatever voices swam in his head. _And I will do right by it as I could not with her._

A miserable promise, but it would be one he intended to keep.

* * *

 

 

**Ned**

“A letter, my lord.”

Ned lifted his eyes wearily to look at the parchment in Maester Luwin’s hand. He took it from him with a little nod, to which the good maester responded with a bow. Catelyn stirred beside him, leaning over her swollen belly the best she could to catch a glimpse at the letter.

“A blank seal,” she notes with a lifted brow.

“Aye,” Ned returns, moving the letter from Sansa’s grasp when she tries to reach out for it. She gives a little whine, wriggling in his lap, before she distracted herself with the strings of his leather jerkin.

“Will you read it or shall I?” Catelyn asks, reaching out her delicate hand. Ned turns it over with a smile, watching her as she carefully lifts the seal and unfolds it.

“‘Dearest Ned’,” she begins, and his heart starts to race. Catelyn chuckles. “‘Dearest Ned’? Have you a paramour that I know not of, my love?”

“No,” Ned replies breathlessly, his eyes locked on the paper. “No. That is… it is…”

Catelyn’s brows furrow as her gaze returns to the paper. Then with a gasp, she clasps her hand over her mouth and thrusts the page at Ned. “Ned, it’s… it’s…”

“Lyanna,” Ned finishes for her, an unexpected smile reaching his lips. “She’s… alive?” The words make him flush with joy. _Alive! My sister is alive._

“She does not write where she is. But she begs that you keep this a secret,” Catelyn returns breathlessly. “And of course, she did say _you_ , but it seems now that it is my secret to keep as well.”

“And I would keep it that way.” He reaches for her hand, leaning over to kiss her knuckles. “There shan’t be any secrets between us, dearest Cat.” Their eyes meet, wordless understanding passing between them. The moment may have lasted longer too, had Robb not stormed in, shaking a wooden sword in the air, and claimed the den in the name of House Stark.

A laugh bubbles up to his lips, the first in a very long time.


	26. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on, Jon realizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been what, almost two years since I last updated this, over the course of those two years I've received numerous requests to finish this Your responses have absolutely blown my mind and astounded me, and even though my time is precious and my creative energy has been fleeting, you all have continuously showered me with praise (and plenty of criticism) and completely upended how I approach writing in general. For those who have been aching for some closure since this project first began: I really hope this meets your expectations, and I'm so, so sorry for making you wait. For those wondering why this ancient fic is now being updated and is just now hopping on: welcome! You're the lucky ones who didn't have to wait years for this to officially finish.
> 
> Before I wrote this, I went through and reread the entire fic from the beginning. It was certainly a whirlwind of emotions, a huge part of them being mild embarrassment as I cursed myself for not writing this part different, or including this detail in that part, or writing this scenario when I could have written another, and so on and so forth. I'd like to think that this is part of evolving as a writer. Your experiences change how you write and how you approach writing. This final chapter has been written by a different person than the one who wrote the other 25. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe it's not. It's not something that can be helped, but I'm proud of who I am now.
> 
> I know a few of you had very different expectations from this final chapter, and I did actually write out several different versions of it using past POV characters as well as third-person POV. Once I came upon this idea, however, I found it's the most suitable way to end it. After being in the heads of Lyanna, Jaime, Rhaegar, Cersei, and others so many times, I felt like it was time to get into the head of someone whose story has been largely untold. What those other characters are thinking at this time will be left to your imagination and from what you already know about them. You know them just as well as I do, after all.
> 
> Once again, thank you to all the readers who held on through this bumpy ride from the start. You're all the reason that I keep writing. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

Jon knew Ser Jaime was not his father. Jon also knew that his name was Jon, and not Bran or Torrhen or Arthur as his mother would introduce him to different strangers in different cities. He knew that Elia’s name was Elia, that his mother was Lyanna, not Rose or Violet or any other flower. He never asked why his mother changed their names, or why they moved so often. He never asked why he had to pretend that Ser Jaime was his father. He had a feeling his mother would never tell him anyhow.

Just as she never told him why they left papa. Talking about papa made her sad, so he stopped asking. What he did know was that he really loved being with his mother, and Elia, and Ser Jaime. His days were filled with joy and laughter, and at night he’d sleep by his mama and Elia while Ser Jaime told stories from the other bed.

His days passed in shades of red and brown and yellows. Red like the blood oranges he ate for a snack, red like the mark on Elia’s face, red like the cloak Ser Jaime wore. It was brown like mama’s hair, like the dirt in the garden, and the leather of the books he read. It was yellow like the walls of their home, like the hot sun in the sky, and the lemons Ser Jaime liked to squeeze into his water.

There was all sort of colors and all sorts of sights and all sorts of sounds. Some of his favorites were Elia’s smile, with her front teeth missing, mama’s loud laugh, and the gleam from Ser Jaime’s sword when he’d polished and sharpened it. He liked the feel of old pages between his fingers. He liked the sound of a street musician playing his lyre.

But sometimes, it felt like something was missing.

His mother and Ser Jaime always said he was wiser than his years. He was not sure what that meant, but Jon knew that he always had a lot of questions. He had turned to his mother one day, as she was humming and winding down from the chores she did for the innkeeper and asked her a question that he’d thought about more and more as of late.

“Who am I?”

Mama had turned to him with her big eyes and smiled in that sad way she often had. “You are Jon,” she told him. “You shall be whatever you want to be.”

“Like what?” he asked. He didn’t know who he wanted to be, though he’s read about hundreds of different lives in books. Once upon a time he was a prince, his mother told him, but even that he seemed unsure of.

“Like a scribe, or a warrior, or a leader of a city,” she says, meeting Elia on the bed, who was sucking her thumb as she was falling asleep, her silver hair falling out of her short braid. “Or a sorcerer, or a maester, or a mummer, or a knight— you, my love, have so many choices.” She presses a kiss to Elia’s temple, where her dark-red birthmark began. Jon had traced that mark with his finger so many times. It was very pretty, and mama thought so too.

“And Elia? Will she have many choices?” he asks, concerned for his sister. If he gets to be a wizard, it was only fair that she have the choice too.

“Oh, yes,” his mother confirms. “So many. So much more than she would have back home.” She brushes back his sister’s silvery hair from her eyes. Elia mumbles ‘mama’ before curling up in her mother’s arms, her little hands clinging to the fabric of mother’s dress. Mama is smiling still as she rocks her against her chest. Jon never saw her smile so much as she did in this place. It made the confusion all worth it.

A knock comes at the door. Mama is the one who responds, carefully setting Elia back on the bed. Jon hops off to follow her, peeking behind her skirt to whoever was at the door. When mama opens it, she gasps.

“Ser Jaime!” She called. Jon gasped; he had come back sooner than expected. “If I had known you were coming home so soon, I would have made more supper.”

Ser Jaime shrugged, smiling his lazy smile. He stood in the doorway in his dented steel armor, his helmet under his arm. Jon seemed to remember a time when he had brilliant white armor that shone like the sun. Yet even in this lackluster armor, he looked very much a knight. Tall, tanned, golden-haired and handsome was Ser Jaime, and he seemed to glow from the inside.

“It’s nothing to worry about, your grace,” Jaime returned. He was the only one who still referred to her as a queen. “I had a bite on the way here.” He reached into the pouch at his hip to pull out a small bag of coin. He transferred it into mama’s hand, then bowed.

“You needn’t do this, Ser Jaime,” Mama said, sighing. “We have plenty of coin between the two of us. You ought to stay home more often.”

“You know my feeling on the matter,” Jaime returned.

“You’ll get yourself killed one day,” Mama mumbled, shaking her head. She moved aside to let him in, which he did after another bow.

Ser Jaime finally seemed to notice him. He grinned and knelt to his level, a hand reaching out to ruffle his hair. Jon crossed his arms indignantly. He didn’t like being treated like a child.

“I got you something,” Jaime said. He took the saddlebags he had swung over his shoulder and laid it on the floor. Jon watched him expectantly as he rummaged through the largest of those bags, eyes widening as he pulled out a leather bound book. “The woman I bought it from claimed she nicked it off a red priestess. It’s a book of magic.” Ser Jaime grinned his brilliant grin, extending the book to him. Jon took it with ready hands, a finger tracing the spine of the tome. It was a book of beautiful red leather that looked almost brand new. The title was small and filigreed in gold: _Red Magicks_.

“Gods be good, Ser Jaime,” his mother clucked from where she sat on the floor, rummaging through a cabinet. “I don’t need Jon hexing the horses and undoing the seams of my dresses.”

“I won’t do that!” Jon protested, pulling the book to his chest. “I’ll be good with it, I promise.” Jaime ruffled his hair again before rising.

“He’ll be good,” Jaime repeated. “He said so himself.”

His mother huffed anyways. Jon took his book and sat on the bed next to his sleeping sister. She looked so peaceful, sleeping as she did, one thumb childishly placed in her mouth. She was a good girl most of the times, but when she cried, she cried louder than anyone. Mama never got angry, though. She told him once that she was born with small lungs and to hear her cry so loudly brought her more comfort than rage. After she told him that, Jon stopped getting irritated when she cried. He would kiss her cheeks and hold her hand until she quieted, and then she’d be good again.

He opened the book before him, smiling at the cracking sound the leather made when it bent at the spine. Rarely did he get a hold of books that looked as new as this, and Jon could not help but wonder if Ser Jaime’s story was less than true. He peeks up at him, watching him remove his armor piece by piece until it sat in a pile in the corner of the room. The collar of his shirt was soaked with sweat and the trousers he wore underneath were dirty. Jon had always wanted to accompany Ser Jaime on his “adventures”, as they called it. Jon knew he was selling his sword, and that he was good at it too. Sometimes Ser Jaime would take him outside and train him in swordplay. He called him 'a natural'.

“I’m filthy,” Jaime mumbled, stating the obvious.

“I think it’s not too late to ask Old Janina to run a bath,” his mother quipped as she slathered a piece of bread with honey. “If she is not able, then I’m certain there’s a bathhouse open somewhere.”

Ser Jaime nodded. He kicked off his boots and flopped into a nearby chair. He peeked a look at Jon and winked. “How’s the book?”

“I haven’t started yet,” Jon admitted. He watched his mother bring a plate of bread and honey to Ser Jaime instead, before she sat next to Jon on the bed. She stroked his hair briefly, then looped an arm about his shoulders.

“Go on, then. I want some magic done by tomorrow morning,” she joked, giving him a squeeze. Jon nodded and flipped to the first page. He was able to read in silence for the time that Ser Jaime ate. In that time, he learned about how magic depended on energy, how willpower could make or break a spell, and that there was a disclaimer at the end of the introduction that warned against the dangers of magic. Jon rolled his eyes at that; as if there was even such a thing as magic.

“Do you ever wondering what they’re doing right now?” Ser Jaime inquired in a soft voice clearly meant just for Lyanna’s ears. Jon could hear him just fine, however, and paused his reading to listen. “Your family. My family.” He waved a hand listlessly. “All of them.”

Mother was quiet for a few moments before she answered. “Sometimes. I imagine that Ned is happy and surrounded by his children. I imagine that Ben is warm and full on the Wall.”

“And what about...?” Jaime asked, leaving the name intentionally blank.

“I think of him,” mother responded. “I think of forgiving him, mostly. Sometimes I do forgive him, though he does not deserve it.”

“I have already forgiven Cersei,” Jaime stated, his expression unreadable. “I think I forgave her long ago.”

“She’s your sister-- your blood. You cannot help it.”

“No. I cannot.”

A silence passed between them. In that time Jon read a few more passages, and heard the clink of glasses. Ser Jaime had poured a cup of wine for mother and himself.

“I know they deserve to know of their father, to see him again,” Lyanna said, picking the conversation back up. She stroke Jon’s hair absently. “I want to write him sometimes. I put quill to parchment and I want to write, to tell him we are safe. Perhaps to give him a second chance.”

“Is that wise?” Ser Jaime asked.

“I will never know, will I?” His mother smiled. “It’s a chance I cannot take.” A pause as mother sipped from her wine. “Do you think he’s learned his lesson?”

Ser Jaime shrugged. “Kings rarely do.”

“I’m sure he’s suffered since I left. Is it cruel to wish that he did?”

“Not at all. I’d say it’s just, your grace.” He smiled wickedly, finger tapping the rim of his cup. “You’ve suffered more, and look at you now. Pretty as a picture and growing fat in Pentos.”

“Oh, hush,” she scolded without any fire. “I’ve earned this, I think.”

They did not speak again after that. Ser Jaime left to bathe, and mama changed into her nightgown and slipped into the bed she shared with them. Elia always slept right in the middle, while mama and Jon were on either side of her. It was sometimes cramped sleeping like this, and sometimes overly warm, but mother always kept a window halfway open to let the cool night air in. Jon put aside his book to lay down. Mama was still awake and playing with Elia’s hair. Jon looked over at her from across his sister, a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue.

“Mama?” He whispered. She immediately looked over to him, and smiled. “Mama, are we ever going back?”

Her eyes seemed to search for the answer somewhere in his face. “I don’t know,” she finally said after some time. “Do you want to go back?”

Jon paused to think about it. He didn’t remember much of home, to be honest. He had only been four when they left, with more memories of Winterfell than King’s Landing. He liked Winterfell-- that much he knew. His cousin Robb was great fun, and Aunt Cat and Uncle Ned were kind. His father-- he did not remember much of him. He remembered a tall man will silver hair and sad purple eyes. He remembered feeling loved by him and sitting on his knee and being held by him. He also remembered the woman he took to replace his mother.

There was so little to draw him back to Westeros. He knew Bastard Valyrian better than he knew the Common Tongue now. He liked the foods, the warmth, the energy. He liked his little life with his mother and sister and Ser Jaime. But Jon did not say that.

“I don’t know,” he replied, frowning at his own indecision. “I don’t remember it. I wish I did.”

His mother reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “You never know what the future holds for us, Jon. Perhaps one day you shall find yourself back there.”

“Without you?” The thought frightened him.

“Perhaps with me, perhaps without. The future is uncertain, sweet boy. That is what makes it so beautiful.” She leaned over to kiss his forehead. Some of her hair brushed onto his face, but he didn’t care. “Before you close your eyes to sleep every night, ask yourself if you are happy where you lay. If you are not happy, then perhaps you are sleeping in the wrong place.”

 _Was that what you did, mama?_ Jon wanted to ask, but she was already laying her head back down on her pillow and closing her eyes. Jon did the same, eyes squeezing shut as he thought upon it. _Am I happy?_ He asked himself. He hears the door to the room open then shut, with the lock rattling in place. The bed opposite theirs groans as Ser Jaime lays down upon it. Soon enough, he could hear him softly snoring.

 _I am happy,_ Jon concludes, smiling before drifting off to sleep. It wasn't always easy, and sometimes he cried, but in this room, filled with the people he loved most, Jon realized that he was sleeping in _exactly_ the right place.


End file.
